JOHN 
COLEMAN 


fi 


i'^ 


J 


CHARLES    READE 


CHARLES  READE 


AS  I  KNEW  HIM 


By  JOHN    COLEMAN 

AUTHOR  OF 

"PLAYERS   AND    PLAYWRIGHTS    I    HAVE   MET,"   "MEMOIRS   OF 

SAMUEL   PHELPS,"   "CURLY:    AN   ACTOR'S  STORY,"   "THE 

MILLER   OF  NVENSLEY   DALE,"   "THE   DUCHESS   OF 

COOLGARDIE,"  "TALES  TOLD    BY   TWILIGHT," 

"GLADYS'    PERIL,"   "  RUPERT^S   ROOST," 

"THRICE  WEDDED,"  "THE  WHITE 

LADYE  OF   ROSEMOUNT," 

ETC.    ETC 


"  Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world;  This  was  a  Man  !" 


NEW    YORK 

E.   P.   DUTTON   6z   COMPANY 

1903 


FOREWORDS 

The  reader  who  expects  to  discover  herein  an  erudite 
disquisition  on  Charles  Reade's  literary  achievements 
is  recommended  to  turn  to  the  Encyclopediae. 

It  is  hoped,  however,  that  he  who  desires  to  see 
the  man  "  in  his  habit  as  he  Uved,"  may  find  the 
following  narrative  not  altogether  destitute  of 
interest. 

"  Good  wine  needs  no  bush,"  and  the  autobio- 
graphical portion  of  the  work  may  be  left  to  speak 
for  itself. 

For  the  rest — 

"  Never  anji:hing  can  be  amiss 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it "  ; 

hence  I  lay  this  cluster  of  "  forget-me-nots  "  on  the 
graves  of  those  whom  I  lo\'ed  while  hving,  and  whom 
I  mourn  now  they  are  dead. 

J.  C. 


CONTEXTS 


Prologue 
Five-and-Thirty  Years  Ago 

bearding  the  lion  in  his  den 

Book  the  First 

Looking  Backward 

A  Retrospect  of  Half-a-Century 

CHAPTBK 

INTRODUCTION 

I.    BIRTH,  parentage,  AND    EDUCATION 
II.    CAREER    AT    COLLEGE 

III.  LONDON    AND    EDINBURGH  . 

IV.  THE    DEAN    OF    ARTS,  OXON 
V.    AT    HOME    AND    ABROAD 

VI.    VICE-PRESIDENT    OF    MAGDALEN 

VII.    GENESIS    OF  "  MASKS    AND    FACES  " 

VIII.    ANONYMS  .... 

IX.    ASPASIA 

X.    THE   TRINITY       .... 

XL    THE    DUCHESS    MAKES    A    DEMAND 

XIL    THE    GENESIS  OF    "  IT    IS    NEVER    TOO    LATE 
TO    MEND  "'    . 

ix 


PACK 

3 


21 

23 

34 

43 

58 

69 

80 

96 

112 

126 

134 

14.5 

156 


CONTENTS 


Book  the  Second 
It  is  \p.vk!{    ion  Late  to  Mend 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE    I'LAY — THE    TIAY's    THE    THING  !  .109 

II.     DKI  EAT    CHANGED    TO    VICTORY  .  .183 

III.    THANSEEUUED    TO    TOWN       ....       201 


]?(K)K    THE    Tuiltl) 

Uando.m   Recollections 
I.   nahoth's  vinevahd  .         .         .  228 

11.    LIFE    AT    ALBERT    c;aTE         ....       24-6 

III.  THE    MYSTERY    OE    THE    NEW    CIT  .  .       282 

IV.  "GHIIEITH     (LM'NI,"     ••KUL      I'LAY,"     AND 

"I'll     YOl'RSELl'    IN     MIS    PLACE  "  .       .'K)l 

v.  two  metropolitan  managers         .         .     328 
vi.  an  ob.iect-lesson   eor   manatiers    .         .     335 

Book  the  Focrth 
Egeria 
i.  two  orphans    ......     349 

II.  end  OF  the  journey       ....     385 

Book  the  Fifth 
The  White  Pilgrim 

I.    'tWIXT    earth    and    HEAVEN       .  .  .       395 

II.    COMING    HOME  .....       409 

POST  scriptum  .......     420 

INDEX         ........      425 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHARLES    KEADE,    ^ETAT    4.5  ..  . 

DIOX    BOUCICAULT    AND    AGNES    BOUCICAULT 


KACINO  PAOB 

3 


IPSDEN  MANOR-HOUSE — WHERE    CHARLES    READE 
WAS    BORN  .... 

CHARLES    READES    FATHER    AND    MOTHER 

"JEMMV"     ROCJERS,    MRS     STIKLINCi,    AND     LEIGH 
MURRAY        .... 

TOM    TAYLOR    AND    BEN    WEBSTER 

MASKS    AND    FACES 

THE    SUPPER    IN    TRIPLET'S    GARRET 

SIR    SQUIRE    BANCROFT    AS    TRIPLET 

LADY    BANCROPT    AS    PEG     . 

CHARLES    KEAN    AND    MRS    KEAN 

JOHN    COLEMAN 

MISS    GRACE    LEIGH 

EDWARD    COLEMAN       . 

EDWARD    SOTHERN    AND    KATE    BATEMAN 

xi 


U 

23 
26 

81 
92 
96 
100 
104 
108 
123 
169 
174 
192 
198 


LIST    OF    ILLl  STHATIONS 

KAiINO   HAOB 

STANisi^us  CALHAEM,  AM)  c;e()R(;k  vimn(;  as 

TOM       UOniNSON      AM)      *'  I.E    MAI.AIDK      !M- 

A(;iNAIUE," 201 

"THE    BENEVOLENT    IMnECII.E!"                         .             .  223 

CHARLES        MATHEWS,        rAlIV        OLIVKH,        AM) 

ALiiiKi)   \vi(;an  ......  242 

wil.kik  collins  and  i'aloravk  simpson  250 

i'hl  li's  as  wolsky,  ikchtek  as  hamlet         .  274 

mks  john   wood  and  ada  (  avf.ndlsh      .         .  316 

ec;eria  as  .11  lief     ......  349 

JOHN   hollin(;shead          .....  3H6 

READES    (;i{AVK               ......  418 


XII 


Prologue 


IIVE-AXD-THIRTY    YEARS  AGO 


CHAHLKS    HEADK 


PROLOGUE 

BEARDING   THE    LION    IN    HIS    DEN 

The  Lion's  Lair  in  Mayfair — A  Mad  Sailor  amidst  the  Edinburgh 
Comedians  —  Christie  Johnstone  Days  —  Tom  Robertson 
loquitur  —  An  Angel  in  Dove-coloured  Satin,  and  an  Airy 
Youth  in  Black  Velvet — Boucicault's  pessimistic  Verdict  on 
"  Never  too  Late  to  Mend  "  —  A  delightful  Dinner-party  at 
Bolton  Row  —  Dion  and  the  Duchess  —  Doctor  Sampson 
("Hard  Cash")  and  the  Colleen  Bawn  —  Leo  and  his  Egeria 
— Brains  and  Beauty — Mirth  and  Music — Boucicault  as  Jack 
Sheppard  and  Sir  Giles  Overreach — "The  Wearing  of  the 
Green" — Commencement  of  a  life-long  Intimacy  between 
the  Chronicler  and  the  Author 

"  So  1  You've  come  to  beard  the  Lion  in  his  den  ?  " 
growled  the  giant,  advancing  aggressively  and  pre- 
senting his  Gillett's  Magnum  Bonum  like  a  bayonet 
in  full  charge  at  my  breast. 

The  sight  of  this  portentous  figure  evoked  such 
a  vivid  impression  of  my  boyhood  that  I  involun- 
tarily exclaimed,  ''  The  mad  sailor,  by  Jove ! " 

"  Mad  sailor  !  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  I  may 
say,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but — were  you  ever 
in  Edinburgh?" 

"Ever  in  Edinburgh  1  Ever!  Scores  of  times 
in  the  Christie  Johnstone  days." 

"  Christie  Johnstone  !  " 

*'  Ha  !  you  knew  her  then  ? " 

*•  I  know  the  stoiy,  and  a  delightful  story  it  is." 

"  H'm  !     You  think  so  ?  " 

"  Think  !     I  know." 

"  So  do  I !  But  that  doesn't  bring  us  a  bit 
nearer  the  point.  What  did  you  mean  by  dubbing 
me  '  the  mad  sailor '  ?  " 

"  I  didn't !  " 

"  Then  who  the  deuce  did  ? " 

3 


FIVE-AND-THTKTV    YEARS   AGO 

"  First  let  me  ask — Do  you  remember  the  first 
row  in  the  pit  of  the  E(hnhur^h  Theatre  ?" 

"I  ought  to,  for  Miiaiiy  a  time  aiul  oft'  in  the 
dog  days  I've  monopoHsed  it  till  second  price." 

"And  'many  a  time  and  oft'  I've  seen  you  in 
your  flamiels  and  your  straw  hat,  with  your  feet 
sprawling  at  full  length  on  the  benches,  while  your 
head  lolled  against  the  front  of  the  boxes,  and  when 
the  second  price  came  tuml^ling  in  you  didn't  seem 
to  like  it." 

"  I  didn't.  Like  the  mad  King  of  liavaria,  I 
wanted  to  keep  the  show  all  to  myself" 

"  But  you  couldn't.  And  when  the  pitites 
routed  you  out  we  used  to  peep  through  the  hole 
in  the  curtain  and  enjoy  the  fun." 

"And  who,  i)iay,  had  the  infernal  impudence  to 
christen  me  '  The  mad  sailor '  ?  " 

"  Bob  Wyndham." 

"  What !  handsome  Bob  ?  Like  his  cheek  !  And 
so  you  were  one  of  the  Edinburgh  boys  ? " 

"  Yes." 

•'  You  must  have  been  a  youngster — T  was  young 
myself  then.  •  Oh  the  days  and  nights  in  Egypt ' — 
I  mean  in  Athens!     Breakfasted?" 

"  Hours  ago." 

"  Tlie  day's  hot !  You  look  tired.  Sit  down,  and 
excuse  me  while  1  finish  this  letter." 

AVith  that,  he  rolled  over  like  an  old  salt  and 
came  to  anchor  at  the  writing-desk  ;  and  while  he 
wrote  I  took  stock  of  him  and  his  surroundings. 
As  nearly  as  I  could  judge,  he  appeared  to  be  about 
fifty  or  fifty-five  years  of  age.  He  stood  over  six 
feet  high,  a  massive  chest,  Herculean  limbs,  a  bearded 
and  leonine  face,  giving  traces  of  a  manly  beauty 
which  ripened  into  majesty  as  he  gi-ew  older.  Large 
brown  eyes,  which  could  at  times  become  exceedingly 
fierce,  a  fine  head,  quite  bald  at  top,  but  covered 
at  the  sides  with  soft  brown  hair,  a  head  so  strangely 
disproportioned  to  the  bulk  of  his  body  that  I  never 
could  understand  how  so  large  a  brain  could  be  con- 
fined in  so  small  a  cranium. 

4 


TOM   ROBERTSON'S   WARNING 

His  attire,  as  eccentric  as  himself,  consisted 
principally  of  a  pair  of  huge  sailor  bags,  braced  up 
nearly  to  the  ann-pits  above,  and  broadening  out 
below  to  almost  elephantine  proportions,  over  a  pair 
of  dandyfied  cloth  boots  with  patent  leather  tips. 

He  was  coatless,  and  his  shirt-sleeves  were  turned 
up  almost  to  his  elbows. 

In  strange  contrast  to  this  ancient  mariner 
figure,  exactly  opposite  to  him  stood  a  fine  replica 
of  the  A'enus  of  Milo.  Half-a-dozen  paintings  of 
considerable  value  hung  on  the  walls,  and  various 
articles  of  hric-a-hrac  were  scattered  about  in  every 
hole  and  corner. 

Thougli  'twas  near  mid-day,  the  breakfast  things 
were  still  on  the  table.  Crumpled  newspapers,  from 
the  Times  to  the  Police  AVtt.y,  from  Ga/i^nani's 
to  the  yew  York  Clipper  were  strewn  about  the 
floor;  a  couple  of  huge  clothes-baskets  (not  ordinary 
waste-paper  baskets)  were  crammed  to  ovei-flowing 
with  all  kinds  of  rubbish,  and  a  bundle  of  books 
and  magazines  lay.  in  a  heap  on  the  table  imder 
the  window.  Three  or  foiu'  agendas  and  scrap- 
books  were  at  his  feet,  while  half-a-dozen  folio 
sheets  of  drab-coloured  IMS.  bespattered  with  ink, 
bescrawled  with  hieroglyphics,  "  deleted "  here  and 
"  stetted "  there,  and  interlined  everywhere,  were 
scattered  about  in  slatternly  confusion. 

After  all  these  years  I  recall  quite  clearly  this 
first  impression  of  Charles  Reade  and  his  "  lion's 
den "  (which  was  also  his  dining-room)  in  Bolton 
Row,  Mayfair. 

The  night  before  I  liad  met  Tom  Robertson 
at  the  Arundel.  A  short  time  previous  he  had 
been  Reade's  prompter  (long  before  the  "  Caste " 
days),  and  the  irate  author  had  trod  on  the  corns 
of  the  ambitious  and  irascible  aide-de-camp :  hence 
there  was  little  love  lost  between  them. 

"  Going  to  see  Reade,  are  you  ?  About  that 
rotten  '  Never  too  late  to  mend,'  too !  Yet  you 
turned  up  your  nose  at  '  Shadow  Tree  Shaft,'  which 
is  worth  six  of  it.     Well,  mind  what  you  are  about ! 

5 


FIVE-AND-THIRTY    YEARS    AGO 

You  are  a  warm  '  ineiiiber,"  l)ut  he  s  warmer.  Mad  ! 
mad  as  a  iMareli  hare !  You'll  be  punehing  each 
other's  heads  in  ten  minutes." 

AVhile  duhitating  as  to  whether  Robertson  was 
right,  the  lion  rose,  rang  the  bell,  motioned  the 
maid  to  clear  away  the  breakfast  things,  and  gave 
her  the  letter  to  post. 

"  Now  then,  young  man,  let  us  come  to  cues. 
What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself  ? " 

"  Nothing  about  myself.  ]5ut  a  great  deal  about 
*  Never  too  late  to  mend.' " 

"  W^ell,  fire  away  1 " 

*'  I  had  never  read  it  until  'I'uesday.  1  began 
after  breakfast,  and  never  left  until  I  liad  finished 
it." 

"  Sir,  you're  a  man  of  tiiste.  Not  many  of  'em 
knocking  about.  You  seem—  fatigued.  So  am  I. 
Suppose  we  broach  a  bottle — only  a  small  bottle 
of  sparkling ! " 

"  No,  thanks  !  not  before  dinner." 

"  Right,  sir,  right.  I  never  tiike  anything  before 
dinner  myself,  but  the  circumstances  are  exceptional, 

and  1  thought  perhaps  that  you \\'hat !  you  w^on't  ? 

Very  well.  Of  course,  you  know  I've  been  robbed 
and  plundered  and  murdered  by  those  paste-and- 
scissors  pirates  and  their  accomplices — those  infernal 
thieves  of  managers.  But,  thank  God  !  I've  licked 
'em  at  last." 

"Glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Glad  !  you — a  manager  ?  I  thought  you  were 
all  leagued  together." 

*'  Not  all.     Besides,  you  forget — /  am  an  actor  !  " 

"  So  are  the  others  I  At  least,  they  think  they 
are  1  But  never  mind  them.  You  know  the  genesis 
of  the  story  ?  " 

'*  Certainly.     Your  play  of  '  Gold.' " 

*'  You  know  '  Gold '  then  ?  " 

"  Rather  !     Smith  offered  me  George  Fielding." 

*'  Why  didn't  you  take  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  less  than  Hamlet  would  have  suited 
my  fireplace  then." 

6 


"GOLD  "  AT  DRURY  LANE,  BRISTOL,  ETC. 

"  That's  the  reason  you  shunted  my  poor  George 
Fielding.     Ever  see  my  play  acted  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  Drury  Lane,  Bristol,  and  Glasgow." 

"  Was  it  well  done  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  Capitally.  In  some  respects  better  than  in 
town." 

"  The  deuce  !     How  was  that  ? " 

*'  Because  Chute  and  Glover  had  brains." 

"  A  manager  with  brains  I  Well,  I  should  like 
to  see  one." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  hope  you  see  one  now  ! " 

"  Of  course,  of  course — present  company  always 
excepted.     But  how  about  Chute  and  Glover  ? " 

"  ^Vell,  to  begin  with,  they  hit  upon  an  original 
idea." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes !  they  had  a  panoramic  act  drop,  which 
led  the  spectator  from  England  to  the  Antipodes." 

"  Splendid  !    Why  the  deuce  didn't  it  draw  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  because  it  was  in  advance  of  the  time, 
and  you  know  it's  as  bad  to  be  in  advance  of  the 
time  as  behind  it." 

"  Worse — worse  !  So  you  think  that  was  the 
reason  of  the  '  frost '  ? " 

"  Not  the  only  one.  The  '  Uncle  Tom '  fever 
had  set  in,  and  '  Beecher  Stowe  on  the  brain '  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  Anyhow,  where  they  took 
£10  to  '  Gold  '  they  took  £100  to  '  Uncle  Tom.'  " 

"  An  unanswerable  argument !  AVooden-headed, 
beastly  British  public !  Yet,  despite  this  abject, 
miserable  failure,  you  are  disposed  to  put  your  money 
on  '  Never  too  late  to  mend '  ? " 

«  Yes." 

''  Well,  what  do  you  propose  ? " 

"  To  dramatise  it." 

"  You  are  an  author,  then  ? " 

"  I  don't  presume  to  call  myself  an  author,  but 
I  have  vamped  up  a  dozen  plays  or  more,  of  the 
common  market-garden  order." 

"  From  the  French  ? " 

"  Yes,  from  the  French,  and  from  other  sources." 

7 


FIVE-AND-THIRTV    YEARS    AGO 

"  Oh  !  then  you're  one  of  the  pirates  yourself  ? " 

"  No.  I  obtained  permission  from  ^Vlcxandre 
Dumas,  Macquet,  and  l*aul  Feval  to  dramatise 
*  Monte  Cristo,'  '  Katharine  Howard,'  and  '  Le  Fils 
du  Diable,'  and  now " 

"  You  want  mine  to  dramatise — '  It's  never  too 
late  to  mend  '  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  Suppose  I've  drairiatised  it  already  myself — 
suppose  I've  had  it  printed — sent  round  to  every 
manager  in  central  London,  and  suppose  not  one  of 
the  blockheads  has  ever  tiikcn  the  trouble  to  read  it  I " 

*'  Just  like  'em — just  like  'em  1  Well,  let  me 
read  it." 

"  So  you  shall." 

Then,  throwing  the  door  open,  he  roared,  "  Laura 
— Laura !  bring  me  a  book  of  '  Never  too  late 
to  mend.'     Tiie  play,  mind  !  ;/o/  the  novel ! " 

The  next  minute  tlie  patter  of  light  feet,  the 
JTOV-frou  of  a  woman's  dress  was  heard  in  tlie  hall, 
and  in  fluttered  a  gorgeous  little  creature  as  beautiful 
as  a  buttei'fly. 

'*  Here  you  are,  Charles,"  she  said,  holding  forth 
a  book  with  a  yellow  cover ;  then,  seeing  the  litter 
all  over  tlie  place,  she  exclaimed,  "  Ciood  gracious  I 
you  are  incorrigible.  AMiat  is  to  be  done  with  you, 
you  gi'cat  baby  I  " 

At  this  moment  the  lady  and  I  caught  sight 
of  each  other.  She  dropped  the  book — I  picked 
it  up. 

"  Allow  me,  Mrs  Seymour,"  said  I. 

"  Hey-day,  good  people  1  You  appear  to  know 
each  other,"  said  he. 

"  Yes — no  ! "  I  replied.  "  Let  me  see  if  I'm  right. 
Eight  years  ago !  The  Haymarket  people  at  the 
Sheffield  Theatre.  '  The  Serious  Family.'  A  woman 
— woman,  did  I  say  ? — an  angel !  in  dove-coloured 
satin,  rushing  off  in  a  huff  at  the  prompt  entrance, 
landed  in  the  arms  of " 

"  A  free-and-easy  youth  in  a  black  velvet  coat,  a 
moustache,  and  a  mop  of  hair." 

8 


A  DIVINITY  IN  DOVE-COLOURED  SATIN 

"  I  was  the  youth.  I  confess  the  cape  and  the 
black  relvet  coat  and  the  rest  of  it,  but  1  ivasiCt  free- 
and-easy.  Quite  the  contrary.  I  apologised — you 
must  remember  I  apologised." 

"  You  did,  you  young  villain,  but  you  squeezed 
the  life  out  of  me  first !  Only  think  !  that  was  actu- 
ally eight  years  ago,  and  we've  never  met  since. 
But,  you  see,  I've  not  forgotten  you." 

"  Nor  I  you  !  There  are  some  people  one  never 
forgets." 

"  Ahem !  What  were  you  doing  in  the  prompt 
entrance  that  night  ?  " 

"  Making  my  first  plunge  into  management.  We 
commenced  the  season  at  Sheffield  with  a  flying 
visit  from  the  Haymarket  people,  and  I  popped  over 
from  Liverpool  to  sec  how  you  were  getting  on. 
Crowded  out  in  front,  I  came  roimd  to  have  a  peep 
behind.  The  scene  was  enclosed — I  happened  to  be 
at  the  door  when  you  threw  it  open,  bounced  off,  and 
knocked  me  all  of  a  heap." 

"  Knocked,  sir !  you  knocked  vie — knocked  the 
breath  out  of  my  body." 

"  Awfully  sorry  ! " 

''  Belay  there  !  "  interposed  the  author.  "  You 
player  folk  are  all  alike,  once  set  your  tongues 
going,  and  the  deuce  himself  can't  stop  your  jawing 
tackle,  but  as  I've  another  thousand  words  to  get  off 
my  chest  before  dinner,  I  must  put  a  stop  to  your 
philandering.  Pause,  reflect,  young  man  !  Remem- 
ber, your  brother-managers  one  and  all  have  refused 
to  even  look  at  this  play,  and  the  only  man  who  has 
looked  at  it  is  dead  against  it." 

"  Who  is  he  ? 

"Dion  Boucicault." 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  know." 

"  You're  off;  then  ?  " 

"  No !  I'm  on.  He  may  be  wrong.  I  will  read 
it  and  judge  for  myself." 

"  Better  let  me  read  you  Boucy's  letter  first. 
Ah  !     Here  it  is  !  "  and  he  read  aloud 


FIVE-AND-THIRTV    VEAIUS    AGO 

**  Dublin,  3rd  December. 

"  My  dear  Reade, — I  have  read  your  drama, 
N.  T.  L.  T.  M.'  Tliere  is  in  it  a  very  effective  piece, 
but,  like  the  nut  within  both  husk  and  shell,  it 
wants  freedom. 

"  1st.      It  will  act  five  hours  as  it  stands. 

"  2nd.  There  are  scenes  whicli  injure  dramatic- 
ally others  which  follow. 

'*  3rd.  There  are  two  characters  you  are  fond  of 
(I  su})pose),  but  can  never  be  played.  1  mean  .lacky 
and  the  Jew. 

'*  4th.  The  dialogue  wants  weeding.  It  is  more 
in  weight  than  actors  —  as  tliey  breed  them  now — 
can  carry. 

"Total.  If  you  want  to  make  a  success  with 
this  drama,  you  must  consent  to  a  depleting  process, 
to  which  Shylock's  single  pound  of  Hesh  nmst  be 
a  mild  transaction. 

"  Have  you  the  courage  to  undergo  the  operation  ? 
1  am  afraid  you  have  not. — Ever  yours, 

'•Dion  Boucicault." 

'*  Now  look  at  the  endorsement." 

I  did,  and  read  as  follows : — 

"  '  Boucy  advises  me  to  cut  out  the  Jew  and  Jacky. 
Aha !  old  Fox,  they  will  outlive  thee  and  me  ! ' " 

"  Will  ?     They  s/ial/  !     Give  me  the  book." 

*'  You're  bent  on  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Unless  you've  made  the  drama  a  deuced  sight 
worse  than  the  novel,   111  do  it !  ' 

"  Then  you  shall,  by  God  !  Off  you  go  !  Read 
it — put  your  heart  in  it — come  to  breakfast  to- 
morrow, and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

"  I  will." 

"  Remember,  ten  sharp  ! " 

Off  I  went  to  the  Tavistock,  denied  myself  to 
everybody,  and  devoted  the  entire  evening  to  the 
play. 

When  I  turned  up  next  morning  Leo  was  all 
impatient  to  know  what  I  thought  about  it. 

♦'  The  first  difficulty  is  the  fact  that  it's  three  big 

10 


THREE   PLAYS   ROLLED   INTO   ONE 

plays  rolled  into  one,  and  the  strongest  act  of  all 
is  the  very  one  which  could  most  easily  be 
eliminated." 

"You  mean  the  prison  ? " 

"  Yes.     The  play  would  be  complete  without  it." 

"  You  would  knife  it,  then  ? " 

"  God  forbid  !     It  will  be  the  act  of  the  play." 

"  Good  lad,  good  lad !  I  see  we  shall  get  on 
together." 

"  We  shall,  if  you'll  only  give  me  a  free  hand 
with  the  blue  pencil." 

*'  What  I  cut ! — cut  my  composition  ?  " 

"  Remember  what  Scribe  said  to  the  comedian 
who  requested  permission  to  cut  a  long  speech. 
*  Cut,  by  all  means,'  said  Scribe.  '  The  line  that  is 
never  acted  is — never  hissed.'" 

"  That's  true ;  but,  recollect,  every  line  you  cut 
out  cuts  into  my  flesh  and  blood ;  so  do  your 
slashing  gently ! " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  interposed  Mrs  Seymour. 
"  Cut  an  hour  out  of  it — cut  and  come  again  !  It 
wants  knifing  awfully  !  Meanwhile,  my  good  friends, 
you  appear  to  forget  breakfast  is  waiting." 

AVe  were  both  valiant  trenchermen,  and  did 
ample  justice  to  the  substantial  repast.  After 
breakfast  he  resumed  : 

"  Of  course  you'll  give  me  entirely  new  scenery  ?  " 

"  Certainly !  I've  designed  the  scenes  already," 
and  I  showed  him  some  rough  sketches  I  had  made. 

"  The  farm's  all  right,  and  so  is  the  Australian 
act,"  said  he,  "  but  the  prison's  not  a  bit  like  it  1 
I'^'e  been  over  lots  of  'em  —  Durham,  Oxford, 
Reading,  Birmingham,  the  very  place  where  Austin 
— no,  Hawes,  I  mean ! — did  that  poor  boy  to  death 
— murdered  him — murdered  him,  and  got  off  with 
three  months.  Three  months !  If  I  had  had  the 
handling  of  the  beast,  he'd  have  been  hung,  drawn, 
and  quartered  ! " 

"  Charles,  Charles,  do  be  moderate." 

"  Moderate,  moderate  !  Bah  !  you're  a  woman, 
and   can't  understand.     You  don't  know !     In   less 

11 


FIVE-AND-THIRTY   YEARS   AGO 

than  three  years  the  ruffian  drove  twelve  unhappy 
wretches  to  attempt  suicide.  Three  of  them  actually 
did  the  trick,  and  the  assassin  got  three  months. 
Three  montlis !  It  makes  one  impious  to  think 
upon  it.  What's  the  good  of  talking  about  God's 
vengeance  against  murder,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  But 
there,  there  !    Let's  have  done  with  the  brute ! 

"  And  now,  would  you  mind  reading  me  George 
Fielding's  farewell  to  the  farm  ? " 

As  I  read  the  lines,  the  tears  trembled  in  my 
voice,  and  overflowed  from  IVIrs  Seymour's  beautiful 
eyes.  Blowing  his  nose  like  a  foghorn,  Leo  rose 
and  paced  the  room  in  violent  agitation,  muttering 
to  himself,  "  Beautiful — beautiful — music — music — 
isn't  it  ? "  Then,  turning  upon  me  abruptly,  he 
desired  me  to  give  Tom  Robinson's  curse  in  the 
prison  scene.  Allien  I  had  finished  he  exclaimed, 
"  Sublime  !  terrible  !  appalling  !  My  only  fear  is,  if 
you  let  him  have  it  like  that  they'll  be  sorry  for 
that  beast  of  a  Hawes.  Now,  seriously,  on  your 
honour,  sir,  do  you  think  that  Lear's  curse  is  'in  it ' 
with  this  ? " 

When  we  laughed  at  his  almost  boyish  exuberance 
he  was  not  at  all  offended,  but  laughed  heartily  as 
he  said : 

"  No,  no,  it  isn't  exactly  that ;  but  I  can't  help 

kicking  when  those  d d  asses,  the  critics,  try  to 

hang  dead  men's  bones  round  living  men's  necks  I 
Of  course  you'll  play  Tom  Robinson  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  do  George  Fielding." 

"  What — what  I  and  leave  that  splendid  piece  of 
vituperation  to  some  emasculated  duffer  ?  No,  sir, 
no — I  want  a  man  for  that !  You  must  do  the 
*cuss'  yourself — or  I'm  off!" 

On  this  point  he  was  inexorable,  and  so  it  came 
to  pass  that  I  was  the  original  Tom  Robinson. 

After  settling  terms  and  the  arrangement  of  the 
prison  scene,  I  was  about  to  take  my  departure, 
when  he  said,  "  Hold  hard !  Mrs  Seymour  has  im- 
provised a  little  dinner-party  to-night ;  she  says  it 
is  in  honour  of  the  advent  of  It  is  never  too  late  to 

12 


A   DELIGHTFUL   DINNER-PARTY 

mend.  I  rather  think  it  is  in  honour  of  the  free-and- 
easy  youth  in  the  black  velvet  coat  who  hugged  her 
behind  the  scenes  at  Sheffield." 

"  Charles,  how  can  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  he  didn't  hug  you,  you  hugged  him — 
so  it's  as  broad  as  it's  long ! " 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense." 

"  My  dear  child,  without  a  little  nonsense  the 
world  would  be  very  grey  and  dull.  Now  look 
here,  youngster.  This  is  not  intended  to  be  a  formal 
function.  There  will  be  only  three  or  four  friends. 
Two  of  them  you  know  already  —  Boucicault  and 
his  bonnie  little  wife — Doctor  Dickson  and  two  very 
charming  women.  Dickey  can  look  after  the  Colleen 
Bawn,  INIrs  E.  is  accustomed  to  take  charge  of  me, 
and  you,  madam,  can  look  after  your  friend  here  I  " 

What  a  delightful  evening  that  was  ! 

Our  host  was  the  soul  of  hospitality.  Mrs 
Seymour  did  the  honours  with  a  dainty  grace 
peculiarly  her  own,  and  our  guests  were  charming, 
Boucicault  especially.  This  distinguished  actor  and 
author  had  (so  he  himself  told  me)  left  England 
under  a  cloud,  but  had  "cast  his  nighted  colour  off" 
in  America,  and  returned  to  triumph.  When  we 
first  met  he  was  living  en  grand  seigneur  in  the 
famous  mansion  at  Kensington  Gore  which  had 
formerly  been  the  home  of  the  Countess  of  Blessing- 
ton.  He  was  then  making  a  fortune  one  moment, 
and  spending  it  the  next. 

His  was  a  most  interesting  personality.  Stroke 
him  gently  he  w^as  an  angel  —  ruffle  his  feathers 
and  he  was  a  devil. 

I  suppose  we  are  all,  more  or  less,  built  that 
way — he  rather  more  so  than  otherwise.  He  has 
often  told  me  that  he  had  encountered  every  vicissi- 
tude of  fortune  :  sometimes  without  a  postage  stamp, 
at  other  times  all  over  money.  A  veritable  Irish 
Gascon  —  with  the  most  delicious  taste  of  the 
potato  on  his  tongue. 

His  accomplishments  were  many  and  varied.  He 
knew   something    about    everything,    and   what    he 

13 


FIVE-AND-THIRTY  YEAKS   AGO 

didn't  know  about  the  popular  drama  (which  to 
some  extent  he  incarnated  in  himself)  wasn't  worth 
knowing.  Although  no  longer  young,  his  mind 
was  alert  as  a  boy's,  and  I  can  well  believe  what 
Charles  Mathews,  Walter  Lacey,  and  John  Brougham 
often  told  me — that  in  his  juvenalia  he  was  the 
most  fascinating  young  scapegrace  that  ever  baffled 
or  bamboozled  a  bailiff. 

He  was  still  handsome.  His  head,  though 
perfectly  bald,  was  shaped  like  the  dome  of  a 
temple,  and  was  superbly,  I  may  say,  Shakespeareanly 
beautiful.  His  face  was  a  perfect  oval,  his  eyes 
brilliant,  his  figure  elegant. 

Old  stagers  were  wont  to  say  he  was  a  mere 
replica  of  Tyi'one  Power — the  famous  comedian  who 
perished  in  the  wreck  of  the  ill-fated  President, 
But  that  great  actor  was  before  my  time,  and  I  can 
only  speak  of  what  I  know. 

Hudson,  Leonard,  Collins,  and  Gustavus  Brooke 
were  all  excellent  in  the  "  Irish  Attorney,"  "  The 
Irish  Post,"  "  Rory  O'More,"  ''  White  Horse  of  the 
Peppers,"  "  His  Last  Legs,"  etc.,  but  Boucicault 
was  a  model  to  himself. 

Then  his  dramas  ? 

The  "Colleen  Bawn"  and  "Arrah  na  Pogue" 
inaugurated  a  new  era. 

Those  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  see  these 
delightful  creations  in  their  first  blush  of  popularity 
can  never  forget  the  dawning  of  "  Myles  and  Eily," 
of  "  Shaun  the  Post,"  and  "  Arrah  of  the  Kiss." 

At  this  particular  juncture  he  was  getting  up 
"  The  Poor  of  London "  at  the  Princess's.  Reade 
had  acquired  the  rights  of  "  Les  Pauvres  de  Paris  " 
from  Macquet,  and  this  circumstance,  combined  with 
INIrs  Seymour's  long  acquaintance  with  Dion,  led  to 
a  friendly  intimacy  between  the  two  authors. 

Both  were  remarkable  men.  Reade  had  gained 
his  fellowhip  at  Oxford  at  one-and-twenty,  and 
Boucicault  produced  "  London  Assurance  "  at  Covent 
Garden   at   two-and-twenty. 

On    the    night  of   our    little    party   Dion    was 

14 


"THE   COLLEEN  BAWN" 

at  his  best.  The  ladies,  too,  contributed  their 
quota,  and  Dr  Dickson  was  inimitable.  Availing 
himself  every  now  and  then  of  a  pause  in  the 
witty  warfare  between  the  two  authors,  he  would 
let  out  some  quaint,  pawky  saying,  which  con- 
vulsed us  with  laughter.  I  had  just  been  reading 
"  Hard  Cash,"  and  Dr  Dickson's  manner  struck 
me  so  much  that  1  couldn't  help  hazarding  the 
remark :  "  Pray,  pardon  me,  but  you  remind  me 
wonderfully  of  Dr  Sampson."  At  this  there  was 
a  roar.  Dr  Sampson  was  Dr  Dickson  himself, 
and  his  honest  face  flushed  with  gratified  vanity, 
as  indeed  did  the  author's,  at  my  involuntary  compli- 
ment to  the  fidelity  of  the  likeness. 

"  Ah  I  you  robber,"  said  Dickson,  "  see  how 
brutally  you've  caricatured  me,  since  the  boy  is 
enabled  to  spot  me  the  moment  I  open  my  mouth. 
I'll  bring  an  action  for  libel  against  you,  Charlie. 
I  will  now ;  'pon  my  soul,  I  will." 

(Some  time  afterwards,  speaking  to  Leo  about  his 
wonderful  portraiture  of  this  gentleman,  he  said : 
"  Come  into  my  workshop,  and  I'll  show  you  how 
it  is  done."  We  went  into  his  study,  where  he 
picked  out  of  a  hundred  huge  sheets  of  drab  mill- 
board, one  headed  "  Dicky  birdiana."  ("Dicky"  was 
a  pet  name  for  Dickson.)  The  sheet  was  divided 
into  sectional  columns,  like  a  newspaper,  and  every 
column  was  filled  with  MS.  in  Reade's  writing,  con- 
taining anecdotes,  traits  of  character,  peculiarities 
of  pronunciation,  and  a  perfect  analysis  of  Dr 
Dickson.  It  was  thus  that  Leo  laboured  from  first 
to  last  in  the  construction  of  character,  and  in  the 
building  up  of  his  works.) 

After  dinner  Boucicault  sang  us  "  The  Wearing 
o'  the  Green"  (this  was  before  the  production  of 
"Arrah  na  Pogue")  with  such  fervour,  that  it  set 
every  drop  of  Irish  blood  in  my  body  boiling,  and 
made  me,  for  the  time  being,  as  big  a  rebel  as  my 
grandfather  was  before  me,  and  he  was  pitch-capped 
twice,  hung  up  to  a  lamp-post  once,  and  once  taken 
out  to  be  shot,  yet  was  at  the  last  moment  saved 

15 


FIVE-AND-THIRTY  YEARS   AGO 

through  the  intervention  of  the  Duchess  of  Leinster, 
and  lived  to  tell  the  story  nearly  half-a-century 
after  '98.     But  I  am  digressing. 

"  Boucy,  my  boy,"  said  Reade,  ''  I've  found  a 
manager  at  last  with  brains." 

"  The  devil  you  have !  Kill  him,  then — stuff 
him,  and  put  him  under  a  glass  case  and  make  a 
Mascotte  of  him.     Where  is  he  ? " 

"  Here  !  Our  young  friend  has  taken  a  fancy  to 
'  It's  never  too  late  to  mend,'  and  is  going  to  do  it." 

"  Where  ? "  enquired  Dion. 

"  In  Leeds,"  I  replied. 

"A  one-horse  shay  place.  Anyhow,  it  was  so 
when  I  was  leading  actor  in  the  York  circuit." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  ever  a  leading  actor." 

"  Ever,  sir  1  I  was  the  original  Jack  Sheppard 
in  your  beastly  hole  of  a  theatre." 

*'  Tate  Wilkinson  thought  it  charming." 

"  Ah !  that  was  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  a  good 
deal  of  water  has  flowed  under  Leeds  bridge  since 
then.  Well,  I  hope  you'll  have  better  luck  with 
'  It's  never  too  late  to  mend '  than  I  had  with  Jack 
Sheppard,  for  I  came  a  cropper  of  twenty  feet  from 
the  flies,  and  nearly  broke  every  bone  in  my  body 
in  the  escape  from  Newgate." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes  ;  I  thought  I'd  got  my  quietus.  They  had 
to  drop  the  curtain,  and  Leigh  Murray  took  my 
part,  while  his  (Thames  Darrell)  was  taken  by 
Bob  Roxby.  That  was  my  last  appearance  in 
Leeds." 

"  And  your  last  as  a  leading  actor,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Oh  dear  no !  I  opened  immediately  after  at 
Brighton  as  Sir  Giles  Overreach." 

The  idea  of  Boucicault,  with  that  accent,  appearing 
as  Sir  Giles  tickled  Reade's  fancy  so  much  that  he 
roared. 

"  Did  you  make  Sir  Giles  an  Irishman,  Dion  ?  " 

"  Did  the  devil !  No,  sir ;  I  made  him  a  great 
tragic  part ! " 

"  But  I  always  thought  you  were  a  comedian." 

16 


A   RED-LETTER  DAY 

"  Garrick  was  a  great  tragedian,  but  he  played 
Abel  Drugger,  and  Kayne — no,  I  mayne  Kean — 
played  Jerry  Sneak.     But  never  mind  me." 

"  You're  a  practical  man,  John.  If  you're  going 
to  put  your  money  on  '  It's  never  too  late  to  mend,' 
try  to  persuade  this  maniac  to  cut  the  prison  act 
and  let  the  Jew  and  Jacky  go  by  the  board." 

"  No,  dear  Dion,  I  nail  my  colours  to  the  mast. 
The  prison  scene,  the  Jew,  and  Jacky  —  or  no 
'Never  too  late  to  mend.'" 

"Very  well  —  as  'a  friend  whose  expectations 
lay  behind  his  hopes ' — here's  success  to  '  It's  never 
too  late  to  mend ' ! " 

We  drank  the  toast  in  a  bumper,  and  "  shut  up 
in  measureless  content." 

That  was  a  red-letter  day  in  my  life,  for  there 
and  then  commenced  a  friendship  between  Charles 
Reade  and  myself  which  endured  to  the  last  moment 
of  his  existence. 


17 


Book  the  First 
LOOKING    BACKWARD 

A  Retrospect 

OF 

Half-a-Century 

Related   by   Charles   Reade 

TO  THE  Chronicler  hereof 


The  story  of  my  life  .  .  . 

I  ran  it  thro'  even  from  my  boyish  days 

To  the  veiy  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 


INTRODUCTION 

Always  eccentric,  our  author  was  not  infrequently 
stern  as  a  Stoic,  deaf  as  an  adder,  dumb  as  an  oyster, 
unbending  and  severe. 

In  these  repellent  moods  the  old  lion  was  wont 
to  gi'owl,  "  I  don't  throw  my  pearls  before  swine ! " 
But  if  he  happened  to  like  his  interlocutor  (more 
especially  if  they  were  alone  together),  the  ice  thawed, 
and  he  was  glad  to  open  his  heart. 

, '  n  these  more  genial  moments  he  confided  to 
the  writer,  at  various  intervals,  the  following  recol- 
lections of  his  early  trials  and  struggles.  They  are 
here  recounted  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  form  in 
which  they  were  originally  related,  and  to  give  them 
verisimilitude  I  have  ventured  to  introduce 

CHARLES    READE 

m  PROPRIA  PERSONA 


21 


Book  the  First 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

CHAPTER  PAGK 

I.    BIRTH,    PARENTAGE,    AND    EDUCATION         .         23 

II.    CAREER   AT    COLLEGE           .                  .  .34 

III.  LONDON    AND   EDINBURGH                  .  .         43 

IV.  THE   DEAN    OF   ARTS,    OXON                .  .         58 
V.    AT    HOME    AND    ABROAD      .                  .  .69 

VI.    VICE-PRESIDENT    OF   MAGDALEN     .  .         80 

VII.    GENESIS    OF   MASKS    AND    FACES      .  .         96 

VIII.    ANONYMS                   .                 .                 .  .112 

IX.    ASPASIA        .                  .                  .                  .  .126 

X.    THE   TRINITY            .                  .                 .  .134 

XI.    THE   DUCHESS    MAKES   A   DEMAND  .       145 

XIL   GENESIS   OF    "NEVER   TOO   LATE  "  .       156 


22 


CHAPTER   I 

BIRTH,  PARENTAGE,  AND  EDUCATION 

In  a  Ball-room  at  Oxford  Assizes  more  than  a  Century  ago — A 
Lady  from  India  and  a  Gentleman  from  Ipsden  fall  in  Love 
at  Sight — Dance  all  Night,  marry,  and  live  happy  ever  after 
— Remarkable  Result  of  this  accidental  Rencontre — A  Quiver 
full  of  Olive  Branches  —  Four  Girls  and  seven  Boys  —  Five 
Boys  take  Service  with  "John  Company" — All  become  more 
or  less  distinguished  —  Two  of  the  Girls  equally  fortunate 
in  their  Matrimonial  Alliances  —  Charles  comes  last,  but 
ultimately  realises  the  Adage:  "The  first  shall  be  last,  and 
the  last  shall  be  first"  —  My  Lady  goes  to  take  the  Waters 
at  Bath  —  Charles  {cetat  four)  is  breeched  and  sent  with 
his  Brother  Compton  to  a  Dame's  School  at  Reading,  and 
doesn't  like  it — On  my  Lady's  Return  the  Boys  are  brought 
Home — Charles  is  placed  under  the  Tutelage  of  his  beloved 
Sister  Julia,  who  teaches  him  all  she  knows,  which  is  a  great 
deal  —  She  is  married,  and  Charles,  broken-hearted,  is  sent 
to  Dr  Scourger's,  where  the  Boy  obtains  a  Foretaste  of 
Hell  —  The  good  old  Times — Emancipation  —  Charles  joins 
Compton  at  Staines  School  —  His  first  Visit  to  the  Parish 
Church  is  nigh  being  his  last — A  Catiistrophe  and  a  Wooden 
Leg — Ed\vin  James,  Q.C.  —  Tempus  fugit — Mtat  fifteen — 
End  of  Schooldays 

"  Birth,  parentage,  and  education,  eh  ? " 

"  That  covers  a  lot  of  gi'ound ;  but  as  your 
beloved  bard  puts  it  in  your  beloved  "  Pericles,"  '  so 
thou  wouldst  know' — I  am  the  incarnation  of  a 
fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms." 

("  A  patYidovCy  sir,  a  paradox  !  ") 

"  Granted  I  '  This  was  sometime  a  paradox,'  but 
(as  your  friend  Hamlet  sententiously  observes)  '  now 
the  time  gives  it  proof ! ' — therefore  perpend. 

"  Upwards  of  seventy  years  ago  there  happened 
to  be  a  ball  at  Oxford  during  the  Assize  week.     To 

23 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

this  ball,  by  pure  accident,  came  a  handsome  young 
gentleman  from  Wallingford  to  beguile  an  idle  hour ; 
by  equally  pure  accident,  thither  came  an  equally 
handsome  young  lady  from  the  other  side  of  the 
globe. 

"  They  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  each  other, 
but  mark — 'what  gi'eat  events  from  trifling  causes 
spring.'  Had  that  beautiful  young  creature  not  gone 
to  that  ball,  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  I  should  not 
have  been  spinning  this  yarn  to  you  to-night.  '  It's 
never  too  late  to  mend '  and  other  masterpieces, 
destined  to  live  when  I  am  gone,  would  never  have 
seen  the  light. 

"  The  auspicious  star  of  accident  was,  however, 
happily  in  the  ascendant.  The  lady  and  gentleman 
aforesaid,  met  at  the  ball,  fell  in  love  at  sight,  danced 
together  all  night,  and,  like  the  prince  and  princess 
in  the  fairy  tale,  married  and  lived  happy  ever  after. 
Anyhow,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  the  gentleman  begat 
and  the  lady  brought  forth  eleven  bouncing  bairns 
— four  girls  and  seven  boys,  and  I'm  one  of  'em  ; 
the  youngest  of  the  lot ! " 

("  But  your  father  and  mother  ?  ") 

"  My  father  was  John  Reade,  gentleman  com- 
moner of  Oriel,  Lord  of  the  Manor  of  Ipsden 
Huntercombe,  Ipsden  Bassett,  and  of  half  the  manor 
of  Checkenden,  Oxon ;  and  my  mother  was  Anna 
Maria,  elder  daughter  of  Major  Scott  Waring,  M.P., 
military  secretary  to  Warren  Hastings  when  he 
was  Governor  of  India. 

"When  his  chief  got  into  trouble  the  major 
stood  up  for  him  like  a  man,  and  was  not  afraid  to 
cross  swords  even  with  so  formidable  an  antagonist 
as  the  renowned  Edmund  Burke,  who  stigmatised 
my  maternal  grandsire  as  'a  jackal,'  while  he  re- 
turned the  compliment  by  dubbing  his  illustrious 
adversary  a  'reptile.' 

{Obviously  compliments  passed  when  gentlefolk 
differed  in  those  days.) 

"  Human  nature  is  much  the  same  at  all  times. 

"  Well,  when  the  major  returned  from  India  he 

24 


MATER  AND   PATER 

left  his  two  boys  behind,  but  brought  his  two  beauti- 
ful girls  home  with  him.  This  was  an  inversion  of 
the  ordinary  routine,  in  accordance  with  which,  it 
was  customary  for  young  English  girls  to  be  sent 
to  India  to  shake  the  pagoda  tree,  shut  their  eyes 
and  open  their  mouths,  and  take  what  came  in  the 
shape  of  a  husband. 

"  It  was  unnecessary  for  the  mater  and  her  sister 
to  shake  the  pagoda  tree — the  major  had  already 
done  that  for  them,  and  was  prepared  to  provide 
them  with  substantial  dowries,  when  '  the  hour  and 
the  man'  arrived. 

"  INIother  was  a  rabid  partisan  of  Hastings,  and 
a  bitter  enemy  of  Burke,  whom  she  was  wont  to 
describe  as  '  a  truculent  and  bumptious  bog-trotter, 
with  a  Tipperary  brogue  to  frighten  a  stallion  into 
fits.'  '  The  horrid  creature,'  she  continued,  '  played 
havoc  with  the  English  language,  and  murdered  the 
names  of  the  Indian  princes,  invariably  calling  the 
Begum  the  "  Bay-Gum  ! " ' 

"  Despite  her  antipathy  to  the  great  orator, 
mother  was  the  soul  of  amiability  and  hospitality. 
Beautiful,  accomplished,  distinguished,  she  was  the 
beau — or  is  it  the  belle  ? — ideal  of  a  grandc  dame. 

"  As  for  dad,  he  belonged  to  a  type  now  rapidly 
becoming  extinct.  Tall  and  stalwart,  a  model  of 
manly  beauty,  a  splendid  cricketer,  a  capital  angler, 
and  a  dead  shot ;  not  effusive,  not  amazingly  in- 
tellectual (mother  brought  the  brains  into  the 
family !),  but  pious.  God-fearing,  just,  a  good  land- 
lord, a  kind  neighbour,  a  friend  to  the  honest  and 
the  poor ! 

"  He  rode  to  hounds  at  every  meet  as  conscien- 
tiously as  he  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  (where  he 
was  a  terror  to  rogues  and  vagabonds — above  all 
to  poachers !),  he  read  prayers  morning  and  night 
to  the  household,  went  to  church  on  high  days  and 
holidays,  and  thrice  a  day  on  Sundays ;  thoroughly 
believing  all  the  time  that  the  Game  Laws  were  a 
divine  institution  for  the  protection  of  the  preserves 
of  countiy  gentlemen. 

25 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  Dear  old  dad  !  Peace  to  your  memory  !  You 
saw  according  to  your  lights ;  and  the  best  of  us 
can  do  no  more  than  that. 

"  When  the  mater  became  Lady  Bountiful  of 
Ipsden,  she  devoted  herself  steadily  to  '  do  her  duty 
in  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  had  pleased  Pro- 
vidence to  call  her.'  The  old  manor  -  house  was 
metamoi*phosed  into  a  habitable  residence,  but  habit- 
able as  it  was,  it  soon  became  too  small  for  the 
continually  increasing  family. 

"  Having  provided  children  for  the  State,  mother 
felt  perfectly  convinced  that  it  was  the  duty  of 
the  State  to  provide  for  them.  There  had  been 
a  little  friction  'twixt  her  and  granddad,  who  was 
a  great  admirer  of  the  sex,  especially  of  the 
theatrical  portion  thereof.  Wherefore,  having 
buried  grandmother,  he  took  unto  himself  a 
second  wife.  "  Ninnber  Two '  was  said  to  have 
been  a  distinguished  actress. 

"  Poor  lady  !  she  had  only  a  short  reign,  which 
came  to  an  untimely  end,  under  remarkable 
circumstances,  some  two  or  three  years  before  1 
was  born. 

''  Granddad  lived  at  Peterborough  House,  Ful- 
ham,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  dispense  hospitality 
right  royally.  There  had  been  a  masked  ball, 
attended  by  Prince  Florizel,  his  royal  brothers, 
and  other  people  of  light  and  leading.  I  presume 
the  company,  after  the  fashion  of  the  time,  were 
more  or  less  '  elevated '  when  the  function  came  to 
an  end,  and,  doubtless,  since  Jack  likes  to  follow 
his  master's  lead,  the  household  followed  suit. 

"  Anyhow,  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  charming 
young  creature,  who  had  been  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes  over  night,  next  morning  was  found  lying 
stone  dead,  her  neck  broken,  her  face  still  masked, 
at  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase.  How  she  came 
there  was  a  mystery  which  has  never  been  un- 
ravelled from  that  day  to  this. 

"  After  bewailing  her  loss  for  a  short  time,  the 
disconsolate    widower    took    unto    himself    another 

26 


^  ^  '- 

5  5  > 


MISS  FARREN  AS  LADY  TEAZLE 

mate — '  a  lady  with  a  past.'  She  was  the  widow  of 
a  naval  officer :  previous  to  her  marriage  with 
whom,  she  had  graciously  presented  the  eighth  Duke 
of  Hamilton  with  a  daughter,  who  ultimately 
became  Lady  Rossmore. 

"  Spouse  '  Number  Three '  married  and  buried 
granddad,  inherited  the  bulk  of  his  property,  and 
died  in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  over  a  hundred  years 
of  age. 

"  This  is  all  I  recollect  of  the  family  tree,  though 
mother,  poor  dear,  never  wearied  of  tracing  her  royal 
descent  from  ISIalcolm  Canmore,  David,  King  of 
Scotland,  John  Balliol,  Llewellyn  of  Wales,  Edward 
the  First,  Margaret  of  France,  The  Fair  JNIaid  of 
Kent,  John  of  Gaunt,  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  I  don't 
know  how  many  others.  When  I  used  to  tease  her 
by  declaring  that  dad  got  his  good  looks  from  his 
maternal  granddani,  the  village  blacksmith's  daughter, 
whom  dad's  father  ran  away  with,  her  anger  knew 
no  bounds. 

" '  Your  father's  ftither  was  a  boy,  and  knew  no 
better.  But  to  dare  to  put  a  play  -  actress  into 
mamma's  place  ! — it's  abominable  ! ' 

"  This  was  a  sore  place  with  the  mater,  and  was 
the  reason  why  the  theatre  was  taboo  at  Ispden, 
except  when  she  spoke  of  Miss  Farren.  Immedi- 
ately before  the  marriage  of  this  famous  play- 
actress  with  the  Earl  of  Derby,  mother  had  seen 
her  play  Lady  Teazle.  Only  set  her  tongue  going 
on  this  subject,  how  she  would  gush !  Whether 
her  appreciation  of  this  performance  arose  from  the 
genius  of  the  actress,  or  from  her  having  become  an 
ornament  of  the  aristocracy,  I  am  unable  to  say. 
Perhaps  she  was  impressed  by  both. 

"  Granddad's  infatuation  for  the  stage  had  evi- 
dently overleaped  one  generation  and  alighted  on  the 
next.  Hence,  his  youngest  grandson  became  the 
theatrical  maniac  of  the  family,  and  so  he  remains 
to  this  day.  This  infernal  profession  of  yours  has 
a  delightful — diabolical  fascination  for  me !  To  be 
a  great  actor  is  to  inherit  a  gift  of  the  gods  I 

27 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"How  1  envy  you  fellows — envied  by  the  men, 
adored  by  the  women — admired  by  both  ! 
j  '        "To    act    a    great    part,    the    huge    assemblage 
^    i^  hanging    on    your    breath    while    you    distil    noble 
%y '      words    and    sublime    thoughts    into    liquid,     living 
music  —  to  know  that  a  thousand  hearts  are  throb- 
bing responsive  to  your  own — to  feel  that  they  rise 
with  you  to  passion,  melt  with  you  to  pathos,  or 
sink   with   you   to  despair — surely  this  is   to   drink 
the  full-flowing  wine  of  life  in  one  foaming  goblet ! 

"  Ah  1  could  I  only  have  been  an  actor — a  great 
actor,  mind  you  !     Alas  !    I  hadn't  the  gift ! 

"  Still,  I  know  a  thing  or  two,  can  do  a  thing 
or  two.  Can  sing  a  bit,  dance  a  bit,  fiddle  a  bit, 
— and,  if  I  can't  act  a  play,  I  can  write  one,  and 
show  you  beggars  how  it  should  be  acted  —  some 
comfort  in  that ! 

"As  I  was  saying,  there  was  a  little  friction 
between  granddad  and  his  daughter  about  spouse 
number  two,  but  the  mater  was  too  shrewd  and 
too  sensible  to  let  that  stand  in  the  way  of  her 
boys.  She  knew  the  ways  of  '  John  Company,' 
and  made  granddad  pull  the  ropes,  while  she  guided 
them,  with  the  result  that  she  succeeded  in  getting 
writerships  in  the  Civil  Service  for  three  of  her  boys, 
and  cavalry  cadetships  for  two  more. 

"  They  made  a  good  start,  came  rapidly  to  the 
fore,  and  were  all  more  or  less  distinguished,  while 
my  brother  Compton  and  I  were  tied  to  mother's 
apron-strings  at  home. 

"  Ispden,  which  was  a  ramshackle  old  place, 
dreadfully  cold  and  draughty  even  in  the  summer, 
had  got  out  of  repair  and  required  overhauling. 
Hence,  while  it  was  being  put  in  order,  '  Madam 
Mere'  concluded  to  go  to  Bath  and  take  the 
waters. 

"  Now  the  city  of  King  Bladud  was  still  an  awfully 
swell  place,  and  madame,  although  a  matron,  was 
younger  than  her  years,  and  didn't  care  to  have  a  pair 
of  bucolic  brats  yelping  at  her  heels  on  the  Parade 
or  in  the  Pump  Room.      Hence  it  was  determined 

28 


MOTHER   BRADLEY 

that,  while  she  made  holiday,  my  brother  Compton 
and  I  were  to  be  sent  to  a  dame's  school  at  Read- 
ing.    I  was  but  a  kiddie  of  four  years  of  age,  when  / 
to  my  consternation  I  was  unfrocked,  breeched,  and            ^ 
bundled  into  the  carriage  with  Compton. 

"  Father  drove  us  to  Reading,  tipped  us  a 
crown  apiece,  bade  us  be  good  boys,  and  left  us  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  JNIother  Bradley.  She  was  a 
good  sort — which  is  more  than  could  be  said  of 
her  grub. 

"At  home  we  ate  of  the  best,  and  plenty  of  it, 
so,  when  at  our  first  dinner  I  was  confronted  with 
a  stodgy  mass  of  boiled  rice  and  grease  (train-oil, 
I  think  !),  I  blurted  out,  '  I  want  to  go  home  to 
my  mammy  ! '  and  was  not  pacified  till  Compton 
whispered,  '  Shut  up !  mutton's  coming  next.' 

"  Mother  Bradley  came  from  Norfolk,  where  to 
this  day  it  is  the  custom  to  take  the  edge  off 
youthful  appetites  by  slabs  of  Norfolk  dumplings — 
beastly  stuff  I  The  mutton,  however,  did  turn  up 
ultimately — and  the  rice  hadn't  taken  the  edge  off 
my  appetite,  I  promise  you. 

"  Happily  our  stay  at  Reading  was  only  for  one  t^x^j^^p^^ 

quarter,  and  we  were  dehghted  to  get  back  to 
Ipsden.  What  with  paint  and  putty,  and  one 
thing  and  the  other,  we  scarcely  knew  the  old 
place. 

"My  nursery  (I  was  the  infant  of  the  house!) 
had  been  metamorphosed  into  a  schoolroom,  of 
which  my  sister  Julia  was  the  presiding  genius. 

*'  Compton,  who  was  getting  a  big  chap,  was 
soon  sent  to  a  private  tutor  near  Oxford,  while  I 
remained  the  particular  charge  of  Julia,  who  was 
my  nurse,  teacher,  playmate,  mother  as  well  as 
sister,  for  three  or  four  happy  years.  At  last  she 
man'ied  Captain  Allen  Gardner,  and  I  was  'left 
lamenting.' 

"  I  say  '  lamenting '  advisedly,  for  her  wedding- 
day  was  the  most  miserable  day  of  my  life.  She 
insisted  on  taking  me  to  Ipsden  Church  to  see  her 
'turned  off.'     I  howled  the  whole  of  the  way,  and 

29 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

when  I  saw  the  bridegroom  and  his  best  man,  the 
bridesmaids  in  all  their  fallalls,  the  carriages  (it 
seemed  as  if  half  the  county  was  there),  I  howled 
the  more. 

"  After  the  wedding-breakfast,  when  they  drove 
off  amidst  a  shower  of  rice  and  old  shoes,  my  shoe 
hit  Allen's  hat  and  squashed  it,  and  I  wished  it 
had  squashed  him  ! 

*'  I  was  now  eight  years  of  age,  and  my  dear 
good  Julia  being  no  longer  at  hand  to  take  charge 
of  the  enfcuit  terrible  (for  such  I  had  become),  I 
was  packed  off  to  Dr  Scourger's,  at  Kettlebury. 
How  I  came  to  be  placed  under  that  pedagogic 
brute  of  a  parson  I  can't  understand  now,  for  my 
brother  Bill  had  already  gone  through  this  purgatory, 
though  he  disdained  to  complain  at  home.  The  fact 
was — besides  being  born  with  the  nerves  of  a  bulldog 
— he  had  a  fine  sense  of  humour.  One  day,  when 
the  beast  had  whacked  him  within  an  inch  of  his 
life,  Bill  blandly  remarked,  '  Take  it  easy,  old  boss, 
I  ain't  in  a  hurry ! ' 

"  It  was  the  fashion  in  those  '  good  old  times ' 
for  boys  to  be  browbeaten  and  bullied,  clapper- 
clawed, unbreeched,  and  birched  on  the  shghtest 
provocation.  Parents  and  guardians  believed  that 
this  precious  process  hardened  and  made  men 
of  them.  The  wonder  is,  it  didn't  make  them 
devils ! 

"My  probation  at  this  diabolical  place  gave  me 
so  vivid  a  foretaste  of  the  torments  of  hell,  that 
1  wonder  to  this  day  how  I  ever  survived  the 
ordeal. 

"  It  may  have  been  ordained  for  some  wise 
purpose,  inasmuch  as  in  years  to  come  it  enabled 
me  to  faithfully  depict  the  tortures  of  the  poor  boy 
in  the  prison  of  'Never  too  late  to  mend.' 

"  AVith  all  her  great  and  noble  qualities,  her 
love  for  her  children  in  general,  and  for  me  in 
particular,  mother  was  trained  in  Spartan  ideas, 
and  the  reality  of  my  sufferings  did  not  impress 
her,   while  as   for    the   stern   papa,   he  was  an    im- 

30 


ALONE   IN   AN   INFERNO 

plicit  Believer  in  the  biblical  axiom,  '  He  who 
spareth  the  rod  spoileth  the  child.' 

"  INIy  brother  Compton,  who  had  got  on  better 
than  I  had,  was  now  sent  to  the  Rev.  Mr  Hearn's, 
at  Staines,  and  I  was  left  alone  in  this  Inferno. 

*'  I  often  wonder  now  that  I  didn't  '  go '  for  my 
tyi'ant,  if  only  for  a  game  of  'kickshin,'  but,  you 
know,  '  the  great  image  of  authority  —  a  dog's 
obeyed  in  office.' 

"  Finding  that  I  was  growing  a  stalwart  fellow, 
mother  didn't  bestow  a  passing  thought  on  my 
repeated  thrashings,  but  when  she  found  I  was 
making  no  progress  in  my  studies — that  I  had,  in 
point  of  fact,  forgotten,  or  nearly  forgotten,  all  that 
my  darling  Julia  had  taught  me,  and  was  in  danger 
of  becoming  a  dunce,  that  was  a  very  different 
thing,  and  a  move  was  determined  on. 

"  When  at  length  the  order  of  release  came, 
and,  after  five  years  of  absolute  penal  servitude,  I 
was  emancipated  from  bondage — I  was  the  happiest 
lad  in  Oxfordshire. 

"  When  I  got  back  to  Ipsden,  the  stern  parents 
were  looking  unusually  triste,  but  when  I  burst 
out  in  a  triumphal  jubilate  with — 

"  '  When  Israel  out  of  Egypt  came 
The  proud  oppressor's  land  ! ' 

even  the  Herr  Papa  collapsed,  and  burst  into  an 
uncontrollable  roar  of  laughter. 

"  My  holiday  did  not  last  long,  and  after  a  few 
weeks  I  was  packed  off  to  Compton,  at  Staines. 

"  Compared  with  Kettlebury,  it  was  like  emerg- 
ing from  hell  to  heaven.  Fortunately,  my  new 
tutor  w^as  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  I  soon 
began  to  learn  something  worth  knowing. 

"  INIy  studies,  however,  were  near  being  cut 
short  almost  at  their  commencement. 

"  During  my  very  first  visit  to  Staines  Church, 
while  we  were  singing  the  Old  Hundredth, — the 
roof  collapsed  and  buried  me,  and  scores  of  others, 
beneath  the  ruins. 

31 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  Luckily,  Compton  escaped  unhurt,  and  my 
yells,  which  arose  above  all  the  hullabaloo,  attracted 
his  attention,  so  did  my  sturdy  legs,  which  he  found 
sticking  and  kicking  out  of  the  debris. 

"  I  was  soon  rescued,  with  nothing  more  than  a 
shaking  and  a  spoiled  jacket.  Some  of  my  fellow- 
sufferers  did  not  get  off  quite  so  easily :  half-a- 
dozen  girls  had  their  bonnets  squashed  and  their 
gowns  torn  to  ribbons,  while  amongst  the  boys, 
broken  heads  and  bloody  noses  were  knocking 
about  in  every  direction. 

"  When  we  had  rendered  what  help  we  could  to 
our  fellow-sufferers,  and  were  about  to  emerge  into 
the  open,  we  were  arrested  by  an  awful  shillabaloo. 

'*  Coming  up  to  the  spot,  we  found  an  ancient 
mariner  with  a  wooden  leg  stuck  fast  in  a  hole  in 
the  floor.  We  managed  to  extricate  him,  but  his 
leg  was  inextricable,  and  we  had  barely  succeeded 
in  getting  the  poor  old  beggar  away  when  down 
came  a  huge  beam  and  made  short  work  with  his 
leg.  That  didn't  matter  much  though,  for  we  sent 
round  the  hat  the  next  day,  and  got  him  another 
and  a  better  one. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  next  quarter,  Compton  (who 
still  kept  steadily  ahead  of  me)  was  sent  to  Oxford, 
bequeathing  me  to  the  supervision  of  his  pal,  Edwin 
tJJiSMi^  Uv^.««  James." 

*'  You  remember  him  ?  " 

{"Rememhej'  the  defender  of  Dr  Bernard  against 
that  scoundrel  Beauharnais  Vergheul,  who  called  him- 
self Bonapaf'te,  and  his  gang  oj  cut-throats  ?  —  / 
should  think  I  do.'') 

"  Well,  Ned  and  I  were  great  chums ;  went  out 
bird-nesting  and  orchard-robbing,  and  otherwise  en- 
joying forbidden  pleasures.  Once  we  ran  away  to 
see  a  prize-fight  between  Dutch  Sam  and  the  Tipton 
Slasher,  and  caught  '  Toko '  when  we  came  back. 

"At  length  James  followed  Compton.  Almost 
at  the  very  commencement  of  his  career  at  the  Bar 
Edwin  leaped  into  fame.    The  great  prizes  of  his  pro- 

32 


SCHOOLDAYS   OVER 

fession  were  not  only  in  sight,  but  almost  within  his 
grasp,  when,  alas !  poor  Ned  !  We  were  friends — 
'  when  —  friends  are  brothers ' ;  and  I  have  always 
deplored  his  downfall. 

When  he  left  I  stuck  to  my  books,  and,  when 
I  was  about  fifteen,  the  mater  thought  I  had  learnt 
all  I  could  learn  fi'om  jNIr  Hearn ;  so  back  I  went  to 
Ipsden,  till,  the  other  boys  being  provided  for,  it 
became  necessary  to  provide  for  me. 

I  was  always  mother's  pet.  Having  now  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  I  had  the  makings  of  a  man 
in  me,  she  urged  father  to  send  me  to  Oxford,  for 
one  term,  at  anyrate,  in  the  hope  that  I  might 
obtain  a  scholarship. 

Ipsden  was  only  seventeen  miles  fi'om  Oxford. 

Two  of  her  most  intimate  friends  there  were  Dr 
MacBride  (Principal  of  INIaudlen)  and  Dr  Ellerton 
(one  of  the  Fellows).  :'■  . , 

The  Manor-house  was  famous  for  its  hospitality. 
Its  port  and  madeira  were  the  best  in  Oxfordshire. 
Our  dinners  were  excellent,  and  admirably  cooked. 
The  mater  had  not  been  in  India  for  nothing ;  hence 
her  curries  and  chutnees  were  the  envy  of  the  county, 
and  the  learned  doctors  enjoyed  a  good  feed. 

She  commenced  operations  by  an  invitation  to 
dinner,  soon  followed  by  another,  and  yet  another. 
In  the  fulness  of  their  hearts — and  their  stomachs 
— the  ingenuous  dons  confided  to  her  that  certain 
good  things,  in  the  shape  of  demyships,  fellow- 
ships, etc.,  occurred  in  INIaudlen  at  frequent  inter- 
vals, and  were  to  be  had  almost  for  the  asking 
by  those  who  knew  the  proper  way  to  set  about  it. 

The  first  vacancy  was  a  demyship  —  a  little 
thing  bringing  in  about  £60  or  £80  a  year — not 
bad  to  start  with.  It  was  resolved  there  and  then 
that  my  name  should  be  entered  on  the  books  of 
Magdalen  College.  *  JA^ 

~    My  schooldays  were  over,  and  a  new  fife  opened  '" 

before  me." 


33 


CHAPTER  II 

CAREER  AT  COLLEGE 

Lady  Bountiful  resolves  that  her  Boy  shall  be  a  Bishop — He  is  en- 
tered at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  placed  under  Robert 
Lowe  and  Mills — Writes  Essay  on  ''Ambition" — Goes  in  for 
a  Demyship,  and  gets  it  at  Seventeen  Years  of  Age — Loafs 
and  lazies — Cultivates  Curls — Dresses  eccentrically — Learns 
to  play  the  Fiddle  and  dance  a  Hornpipe  —  The  Oxford 
Players — The  Hope  of  the  House  of  Ipsden  is  stage-struck 
and  dramatises  "Peregrine  Pickle" — A  Vacancy  occurs  for 
a  Fellowship,  for  which  he  is  eligible  but  unprepared — The 
Awakening — He  goes  in  for  his  "Great  Go,"  and  emerges 
A  Fellow  of  his  College  at  one-and-twenty  —  Ostracised  at 
Oxford  —  Malignant  Machinations  to  deprive  him  of  his 
Fellowship  defeated — Going  to  Edinburgh  to  take  his  Degree 
as  M.D.  —  Is  deterred  by  the  Horrors  of  the  Sawpit  —  Goes 
to  London,  and  is  entered  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  where  he  eats 
his  Dinners  but  does  nothing  else. 

*'  My  boyish  garments  had  now  to  to  be  discarded 
for  the  toga  virilis,  so  the  squire  and  the  mater 
took  me  over  to  Reading  and  had  me  togged  out 
as  became  the  son  of  the  lord  of  Ipsden  Manor, 
and  when  term  time  began  they  escorted  me  to 
Oxford  in  the  state  carriage  and  pair,  and  duly 
installed  me  in  my  rooms. 

Dr  MacBride  invited  us  to  dinner  to  meet  Routh, 
the  head  of  the  College,  a  pompous  old  gentleman 
who  was  said  to  have  been  an  awful  swell  in  his 
time,  but  who  was  now  approaching  "  the  lean  and 
slippered  pantaloon"  period. 

Next  day,  on  Ellerton's  introduction,  an  arrange- 
ment   was    made    with    Robert    Lowe    (afterwards 

34 


THE   YOUTHFUL   DEMY— JEtat   17 

Lord  Shelbourne)  and  Mills  to  coach  me  up  in  my 
curriculum.  Then  I  was  taken  round  to  dad's 
tradesmen  in  the  Oriel  days,  and  introduced,  with 
strict  injunctions  as  to  the  amount  of  credit  to  be 
given,  etc. 

Before  starting  home,  he  tipped  me  a  "fiver," 
told  me  he  hoped  I  should  always  remember  I  was 
a  Reade  of  Ipsden  Bassett.  Mother  kissed  me,  gave 
me  a  valedictory  blessing,  bade  me  be  a  good  boy 
and  make  haste  to  be  a  bishop !  This  last  admoni- 
tion stuck  in  my  throat,  for  from  the  moment  I 
met  that  beast  of  a  Scourger  I  never  could  abide  a 
parson. 

Oxford,  then  as  now,  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  cities  in  the  world.  I  admired  its  delight- 
ful groves  and  gardens,  its  lovely  river,  its  spacious 
colleges,  its  splendid  libraries  and  museums,  its 
magnificent  churches  ;  but  I  was  young — alone — and 
— "  O  Pylades,  what  is  life  without  a  friend  ! " 

There  were  lots  of  youngsters  like  myself 
knocking  about — but  "we  hadn't  been  introduced, 
don't-yer-kno  w. " 

If  ever  there  was  a  fella  needed  sympathy,  I 
was  that  fella. 

To  be  sure,  Dr  INIacBride,  Ellerton,  and  my 
"coaches"  were  always  kind,  if  not  cordial  —  but 
youth  goes  to  youth,  and  I  didn't  know  a  chap  of 
my  own  age  in  the  whole  'Varsity. 

Work  is  the  surest  panacea  for  the  doldrums,  so 
I  set  my  heart  on  that  demyship  and  went  at  my 
books  for  all  I  knew. 

I  prepared  for  my  competition  paper  an  essay  in 
Addisonian  prose,  on  "  Ambition."  I  thought  it 
magnificent  then  ;  it  seems  rather  grandiloquent  now. 
It  is  the  fault  of  youth.  A^^ith  all  its  faults,  like 
INIercutio's  wound,  "  it  served,"  and  at  seventeen  I 
got  my  demyship.     That  was  in  July  1831. 

What  a  blessing  is  the  lightheartedness  of  youth  1 
Off  I  went  there  and  then  on  Shanks's  mare  to  bear 
the  good  news  to  Ipsden.  Father  was  dehghted, 
mother  radiant,  as  she  exclaimed, 

35 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

I,  ^        "  The  next  step,  Charley,  is  a  Fellaship." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  much  about  Fella- 
ships,  John." 

{''True,  O  King!'') 

"  Briefly  then,  the  appointment   carries   with    it 

a  stipend  commencing  at  £250  a  year — rising  ulti- 

/  ^^^  mately  to  £600  or  more,  so  long  as  the  Fella  remains 

single.     Hence,  if  he  wishes  to  avoid  pauperdom,  he 

is  condemned  to  perpetual  celibacy." 

{''Infamous!") 

"  Infamous  ?     D — nable,  dear  boy  ! 

To  be  condemned  forever  to  a  life  of  loneliness 
was  not  a  pleasant  prospect  for  a  youth  of  my 
temperament.* 

Having  gained  a  small  triumph,  my  mauvaise 
honte  melted  like  mist  before  the  sun,  my  shyness 
disappeared  like  magic,  and  although  I  made  few 
friends,  I  made  heaps  of  acquaintances :  all  boys 
like  myself,  who  sedulously  devoted  themselves  to 
horses,  cricketing,  boating,  boxing,  fishing,  shooting, 
bowls,  skittles,  and  archery.  Then  came  three  or 
four  years  of  lazying  and  loafing  and  desultory 
reading  to  be  utilised  hereafter. 

Amongst    other   useless   accomplishments    I   de- 
veloped a  taste  for  fiddling  and  dancing ;  in  fact,  I 
could  "play  the  fiddle  like  an  angel,"  and  dance  a 
5^«.i.:«  *'^      hornpipe  like  T.  P.  Cooke. 

When  the  long  vacation  came  I  went  home, 
taking  my  faithful  fiddle  with  me.  One  or  two  of 
my  brothers  had  come  back  on  leave,  and  some  of 
their  boys  and  girls  were  down  at  Ipsden  for  the 
holidays.     I  was  only  a  boy  myself  then. 

One  evening  the  old  folk  had  gone  to  roost  at 
the  other  end  of  the  building — we  were  supposed  to 
be  at  roost  too,  but  I  had  invited  the  youngsters  to 
sneak  down  to  the  dining-room  to  sing  songs,  tell 
tales,  and  enjoy  themselves  over  a  bowl  of  hot 
lemonade.  Carried  away  by  animal  spirits,  I  was 
easily   persuaded  to   air  my  newly-acquired  accom- 

*  Happily,  Reade  lived  to  see  this  barbarous  survival  of  the 
dark  ages  swept  away, 

36 


fT\%^ 


THE   PLAYERS 

plishments  by  dancing  a  hornpipe  upon  the  dining- 
room  table  to  my  own  accompaniment. 

I  was  just  getting  to  the  coda,  the  boys  and 
girls  were  shouting  and  shrieking  and  clapping 
their  hands  with  delight,  when  who  should  turn 
up  but  the  squire,  in  dressing-gown  and  nightcap, 
startled  out  of  his  first  sleep  by  the  unearthly  din. 

"  What — what !  fiddling  !  at  this  hour  !  fid- 
dling !  Show  me  a  fiddler  and  I'll  show  you  a  fool  I 
Off!  jackanapes  I  off  you  go!  To  bed  the  whole 
boiling  of  you ! "  and  he  wound  up  by  consigning 
me  and  my  fiddle  to  the  place  "paved  with  good 
intentions." 

Obviously  after  this,  my  room  was  preferable  to 
my  company,  so  I  returned  to  Oxford  the  next 
day  without  beat  of  drum. 

It  was  mighty  dull  during  the  Vacation,  not  a 
soul  there  one  knew,  save  two  or  three  dry-as-dust 
old  dons,  whom  I  detested. 

I'd  got  one  of  my  lazy  fits  upon  me.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  "  Peregrine  Pickle,"  "  Roderick  Random," 
"  Tom  Jones,"  and  "  Tristram  Shandy,"  I  don't  know 
what  would  have  become  of  me.  But  one  can't  pick 
up  a  *' Peregrine  Pickle"  and  "Tom  Jones"  every 
day  in  the  week. 

The  darkest  hour  is  just  before  the  dawn,  and 
when  the  place  had  become  unendurable,  lo !  a 
light !  The  players,  my  lad  !  the  players  had 
come ! 

("  The  players  I '') 

*'  Of  course,  you  know,  from  your  Cambridge 
experiences,  the  authorities  (idiots !  jackasses ! ) 
wouldn't  allow  the  theatre  to  be  open  in  term 
time." 

("  Yes ;  I  know  to  my  cost/'') 

In  Colley  Gibber's  time  the  Oxford  dons  were 
glad  enough  to  invite  Barton  Booth  and  the  rest 
of  the  Drury  Lane  players  to  come  down  to  act 
that  high-falutin'  "Cato"  of  Addison's,  in  one  of 
the  College  halls  (I  forget  which,  but  you'll  find  all 
about  it  in  Colley  Cibber),  glad  enough  too  to  pocket 

37 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

the  plunder,  to  provide  a  spltiulid  pejil  of  bells, 
whicli  ring  out  to  this  day  in  one  of  the  churches. 
But  one  must  draw  the  line  somewhere,  and  the 
morals  of  the  boys  must  be  preserved  from  con- 
tamination with  the  profane  playhouse! 

Well,  anyliow,  tliank  dotl  !  tlie  players  came 
during  the  X'acation  ! 

To  be  sure,  the  playhouse  was  a  primitive  sort 
of  place  ;  but  after  all,  **  the  play's  the  thing, "  and 
we  had  "  tragedy,  comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastoral 
comical  "  ever)'  other  night,  and  a  new,  dazzling,  and 
delightful  life  opened  out  before  me. 

I  had  read  the  plays  before,  but  never  understood 
them  till  now,  and  the  acting  was  a  revelation  to  me. 

The  players  I  thought  excellent.  There  were 
not  many  of  them,  not  more  than  se\en  or  eight, 
but  there  was  a  crowd  of  girls,  fair  and  dark,  tall 
and  short,  plump  and  slender. 

It  was  rumoured  that  many  of  them  were  the 
daughters  of  distinguished  actors  in  town  and  else- 
where, who  were  entrusted  to  the  manager  and 
mana-geress  to  make  their  maiden  eil'orts. 

Some  of  the  girls  had  considerable  ability  ;  all  had 
youth,  and  most  of  them  beauty. 

The   leading   lady,   a    .Miss    .Mehille,   was    an   ac- 
complished actress  and  a  magnificent  woman.     The 
manager's  wife,  Mrs  Barnett,  a  buxom  brunette  with 
great  brown  eyes,  was  the   best — yes,  the  very  best 
,  ,    ^     soiibrcttc   I've  ever  seen.     The  low  comedian  was  a 
'  "   little  Hop-o'-my-thumb  of  a  chap  named  Robsoji,  who 
took  London  by  storm  a  few  years  laterT'  Then  my 
excellent  good   iViend   Walter   Lacy  (I   didn't   know 
him  then)  was  about  as  good  a  comedian  as  could 
be  seen  anywhere — at  least,   I  thought  so. 
**     .  !3  *  *  'y^\\Q   manager  was   the   proprietor   of  the    Bath, 

4AVwywK>^  Kyde,    Guildford,  and    Heading  Theatres,    and   was 
said  to  have  been  a  proti'\^c  of  the  Kembles. 

He  was  an  eccentric  old  gentleman.  Morning, 
noon,  and  night  he  wore  an  impeccable  top  hat,  a 
dress  suit,  a  white  choker,  pumps  and  perforated  black 
silk  stockings.    He  rarely  or  ever  acted,  but  whenever 

38 


PEREGRINE    PICKLE 

he  did,  wliether  it  was  Capulet,  or  Francis  in  "  The 
Stranger"  (his  pet  part),  he  never  changed  his  panta- 
loons, his  pumps,  or  his  perforations. 

You've  heard  of  Old  Harnett,  I  suppose  ? 

{^^  Heard  ^     I  kiiciv  JunTTiTtTniatcl}).'') 

*'  I  thought  these  Oxford  days  were  before  your 
time." 

{''So  they  xverc ;  hut  I  kneiv  the  Burnetts  lon^ 
after  that  —  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  GuildJ'orcL  and 
Reading.'') 

Really  ! 

AVell,  seeing  these  good  people  first  inspired  me 
with  the  thought  of  hcing  a  playwright,  so  I  set 
to  work,  dramatised  "  Peregrine  Pickle,"  and  sent  it 
to  the  old  l)oy,  offering  it  him  gratis. 

He  didn  t  seem  to  see  it,  however,  and  wrote 
me  a  polite  note,  advising  me  to  send  it  to 
Macready,  jmd  suggesting  that  as  my  MS.  was 
not  easily  decipherahle,  a  fair  copy  might  be 
desirable. 

I  rose  to  the  bait — had  my  precious  "  Peregrine  " 
printed  at  a  cost  of  upwards  of  4^.*J(),  and  sent  it  to 
the  eminent  one. 

It  was  returned  by  the  next  post,  with  a  note  from 
iSIr  Serle,  Macrcady's  secretary,  inquiring  whether  I 
had  been  "trying  a  practical  joke;  that,  if  so,  the 
joke  was  a  bad  one,  and  the  play  worse." 

This  is  the  rough  brake,  my  son,  through  which 
greatness  nuist  pass  ere  it  reaches  the  sunnnit  of 
ambition. 

I  know  now  that  Serle  was  right,  and  I  was  an 
impudent  young  idiot  to  have  trespassed  on  Mac- 
ready's  valuable  time. 

After  a  recent  penisal  of  this  first  effusion  of 
the  youthful  muse,  I  wrote  its  epitaph  on  the  fly- 
leaf in  three  words  —  or  rather  repeated  one  word 
thrice,  and  that  word  is  "  Bosh  ! " 

The  very  day  after  the  players  left  Oxford  I 
learnt  that  a  vacancy  had  occurred  for  a  Fellaship 
— and  I — oh,  horror ! — I  was  not  ready  for  my 
exams. ! 

39 


LOOKINC;    HACKU  AHI) 

II",  instead  of  goin^  to  the  piny  every  iii^ht,  and 
writing  my  precious  "Peregrine  Pickle,"  and — I  may 
as  well  own  up ! — going  about  gallivanting  with  the 
gels,   I   had  only  studied  my  hooks  ! 

What  was  to  l)e  tlone  i  I  had  only  a  month  to 
get  ready  in. 

I  don't  know  how  the  news  readied  Ipsden,  uidess 
*' a  hird  of  the  air  carried  the  matter  -I 'ncle  Faher 
happened  to  he  there  on  a  visit.  The  very  next 
day  he  and  iatiier  and  mother  hurst  into  my  rooms, 
and  opened  fire  on  me. 

"'I'his  comes  of  fiddling  and  fooling,"  growled 
the  squire. 

**  And  going  about  with  those  husseys  of  play- 
actresses  to  the  boat-race  on  Saturday  ! — a  carriage 
and  pair,  too.  I  wonder  how  you  dare  look  me 
in  the  face,  sir !  "  exclaimed  the  irate  mater. 

"The  idea!"  snarled  Cncle  Faber  in  his  inde- 
scribable ^'orkshire  accent,  *' of  a  nev\y  of  mine 
goin'  about  in  a  green  coat,  with  a  pickle  cabbage 
cra\at.  Strip  'em  oil',  sur  !  and  cut  those  culls  (curls), 
and  luck  loike  a  men  'stead  of  a  laiker !  If  thou 
wert  to  go  up  with  those  beastly  })rass  buttons 
befoure  owd  Hawth,  he'd  send  thee  packin'  befoure 
thou'dst  opened   thy  mawth  !  ' 

This  plain  speaking  did  me  good,  and  I  went  for 
my  "gi'cat  go"  like  a  bull  at  a  gate. 

My  time  had  not  been  wholly  wasted  at  Mr 
Hearn's.  I  was  safe  in  my  English — and  pretty 
well  grounded  in  my  classics,  and  with  the  aid  of 
my  coaches,  and  sticking  to  my  work  morning,  noon, 
and  night,  it  seemed  possible  I  might  pull  through 
M'ithout  being  ploughed. 

Being  rather  heterodox,  1  was  a  little  dubious 
about  my  theology.  I  had  always  shied  at  that 
abominable  Athanasian  Creed,  and  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  threatened  to  tiummux  me  altogether.  I 
hammered  away  at  'em,  but  I  couldn't  hammer  'em 
into  my  head. 

To  make  matters  better,  witliin  two  days  of  the 
examination  I  had  a  diabolical  attack  of  neuralgia. 

40 


A    FULL-GROWN    FELLOWSHIP 

On  the  fateful  morning  (I  shall  never  forget  it), 
July  22nd,  1835,  I  took  Uncle  Faber's  advice,  had 
my  hair  cut,  doff'ed  my  green  coat,  donned  a  black 
one,  and  o\er  that  my  cap  and  gown.  As  1  walked 
across  the  quad,  in  an  agony  —  for  my  face  was 
swollen  to  twice  its  size — I  met  Lowe.  "  A\'ell, 
young  shaver,"  said  he,  "  how  about  the  Thirty- 
nine  Articles  ? " 

*'  Can't  get  at  'em — I  remember  only  six." 

"  The  odds  are  that's  more  than  any  of  'em  do, 
so  keep  a  good  heart,  and  the  chances  are  youll  pull 
through.  Go,  my  boy,  'go  where  glory  waits  you,' 
and  good  luck  to  you  I " 

(*'  This  is  hccotnitig  fjuitc  cvciting !  More  did  tjou 
get  on  .?") 

'*  All  right  in  Cireck,  Latin,  and  Logic." 

{'-  But  the  Thirtij-nifwr^) 

"  Well,  as  luck  would  have  it,  they  asked  me 
one  of  the  six  I  knew ! " 

("Ao.?") 

"  Yes." 

("  Then  you  came  ojf  triuiuphaid .?") 

"  Not  exactly  !  Rut  '  near  or  far  oft' — well  won 
is  still  well  shot,'  and,  at  anyrate,  I  came  oft'  as 
well  as  Newman." 

{'^Thc  Cardinal?'') 

'*  Yes,  tlie  Cardinal — and  tlie  Archbishop — who 
did  us  so  well  at  Bishopthorpe  when  I  was  stay- 
ing with  you  at  York  last  summer.  I  took  my 
B..V.,  and  succeeded  to  my  fellowship  and  a  per- 
manent income  for  life  before  I  was  one  and- 
twenty. ' 

{'^'irondcrful  r') 

" '  I  believe  you,  my  boy.'  >Lilignant  but  in- 
eft'ectual  eff'orts  were  made  to  invalidate  my  election 
on  the  gi'oimd  of  a  technical  informality.  Thanks, 
however,  to  the  good  offices  of  mother's  old  friend 
Sumner,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  they  failed;  and  I 
retained  my  Fellaship,  and  do  retain  it  to  this  day. 
It  was  imperative  then  for  a  '  Fella '  to  take  a 
degree   in   law   or   medicine,    and    dear    old    Routh 

41 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

suggested  I  should  go  to  Edinburgh  and  take  my 
M.D.  there. 

I  went  to  try  my  luck,  but  one  dose  of  the 
dissecting-room  was  enough. 

When  I  saw  the  beastly  sawbones  cutting  up  a 
poor  wench  like  a  pig,  I  staggered  out  of  the 
slaughterhouse  and  fainted  in  the  passage. 

Tlierc  was  nothing  for  it  now  })ut  the  law. 

For  the  first  twelve  months  I  was  compelled  to 
be  in  residence  at  Maudlcn,  l)ut  as  soon  as  I  was 
at  liberty  I  bolted  to  town,  where  C'ompton  was 
already  settled.  The  dear  old  chap  met  me  at  tlie 
coach  office,  took  rooms  for  mc  in  Norfolk  Street, 
C»>r*^^V^*^  stood  early  dinner  at  the  Ilummums,  and  took  me 
to  Old  Drury  to  see  Macready  in  Macbeth!  iMy 
God  !  AVhat  a  revelation.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
wonderful  performance  to  my  dying  day. 

The  following  night  we  went  to  the  llaymarket, 
where  we  saw  Mrs  Nisbett  as  Lady  Teazle,  \\'illiani 
Farren  as  Sir  Peter,  Mrs  Glover  as  Candour,  Strick- 
land as  Sir  Oliver,  TbTiii^Cooper  as  Joseph,  .Jim 
A\'allack  as  Charles,  llarley  and  Meadows  as  Sir 
Benjamin  and  Crabtree,  and  \Vebster  as  Moses — 
there  was  a  cast  for  you  1 

Next  day  I  entered  my  name  at  Lincoln's  Inn, 
ate  my  dinners  in  due  course,  chummed  with  my 
cousin  Charles  Faber  (a  right  down  good  fellow), 
read  with  Sam  AN'arren  (Tittlebat  Titmouse  AVarren). 
But  we  soon  agreed  to  differ,  and  I  moved  over 
to  Matthew  Fortescue,  a  pal  of  Compton's,  and  then, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  dropped  the  law  altogether 
until  six  years  later,  when  I  was  called  to  the  Bar, 
and  ultimately  became  D.C.L." 


42 


CHAPTER    111 

LONDON  AND  EDINBURGH 

Life  in  London — Man  about  Town — More  stage-struck  than  ever 
— The  great  Players  of  the  Period — The  Mighty  "  Mac  " — 
Covent  Garden,  Drury  I^inej  and  the  Haymarket — Aspasia — 
"  The  Fair,  the  Chaste,  the  Inexpressive  She  " — Studies  "  the 
greatest  of  all  the  Arts,"  steps  from  the  Sublime  to  the  Ludi- 
crous, and  goes  into  Business  as  a  Fiddler — Vacation  Visits  to 
Scotland  —  The  VVaverley  Country — Bonnie  Edinburgh — The 
Old  Theatre  at  the  Footof  the  North  Bridge — William  Murray's 
matchless  Company — The  Mad  Sailor  in  the  Pit — Life  at  New- 
haven —  Lord  Ipsden,  Christie  Johnstone,  and  her  Forbears 
—  The  little  Rift  within  the  Lute  —  Crossing  the  Tweed  — 
Home-coming — His  Fiddles  get  him  into  Trouble  again  at 
Ipsden  —  Ignominious  Dismissal  —  Goes  on  the  Continent  to 
France  and  Switzerland  —  After  Continental  Tour — Returns 
Home  for  Shooting — Killing  the  Fatted  Calf 

"  Notwithstanding  the  machinations  of  my  enemies 
at  Maiidlcn,  my  Fellaship  and  my  income  were 
assured,  and  having  nothing  to  do,  and,  to  per- 
petrate an  Irishism,  plenty  of  time  to  do  it  in,  I 
pitched  my  tent  in  London. 

You  would  scarcely  believe  it  that,  despite  my 
limited  income,  1  was  one  of  the  most  stylish  young 
men  about  town  in  those  days.  After  an  early 
breakfjist,  and  two  or  three  hours'  desultory  reading, 
the  morning  found  me  lounging  down  Bond  Street 
or  the  shady  side  of  Pall  ^lall ;  the  afternoon  out- 
side a  horse  (a  hired  one)  in  the  Row,  while  every 
night,  or  every  other  night,  was  passed  in  the 
theatre. 

43 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Even  during  this  short  spell  of  apparent  indolence 
I  had  one  fixed  purpose — to  be  a  dramatist. 

I  am  even  more  convinced  now  than  I  was  then 
that  the  drama  in  its  highest  form  of  development  is 
the  queen  of  all  tlie  arts,  inasmuch  as  it  combines 
them  all  in  one  cohesi^•e  and  harmonious  whole. 
Hence  it  was  that  I  steadily  devoted  myself  day  and 
night  to  perfecting  myself  in  the  grammar  of  the 
stage. 

It  was  a  fortunate  time  for  me  to  learn  my  busi- 
ness, including,  as  it  did,  the  whole  of  Macready's 
memorable  management  at  Covent  Garden,  1837-38, 
and  at  Drury  l^anc,  1841-43. 

I  don't  believe  that,  even  in  '  the  palmy  days ' 
about  which  so  much  rot  has  been  spoken  and 
written,  anytliing  ever  approaciicd  the  general  ex- 
cellence of  Macready's  productions,  and  I  am  quite 
sure  there  never  lias  been  anything  like  it  since. 
Don't  imagine  I  seek  to  depreciate  the  excellence 
of  to-day.  Au  coiiti'aire,  I  have  tlie  highest  appre- 
ciation for  it ;  but  "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! "  and 
1  shoidd  be  barbarous  and  ungratcfid  were  I  to 
forget  what  I  owe  that  great  man  and  his  con- 
temporaries. 

Some  of  the  performances  given  by  Charles 
INIathews  and  Madame  ^^estris  at  Covent  Garden 
wef^""5f*the  very  highest  order — notably,  Sheridan 
Knowles'  play  "  Love,"  Shakespeare's  "  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,"  and  "London  Assurance"  (which 
I  saw  the  first  night)  were  all  most  admirably 
done. 

I  shan't  discuss  the  merits  of  the  play  (although 
they  are  considerable),  but  when  I  read  of  airy 
young  gentlemen,  who  know  as  much  of  the  tech- 
nique of  the  drama  as  my  boots,  affirming  that 
comedy  has  never  been  acted,  never  mounted  until 
now,  I  simply  say,  "  Go  away,  ignorami !  go  away 
and  learn  your  alphabet  I " 

Of  course  Covent  Garden  was  too  big  for  this 
play  (it  ought  to  have  been  done  at  the  Hay- 
market!),  but  there  never  has  been  a  scene  on  any 

44 


THE   HAYMARKET   COMPANY 

stage  in  my  time  which  could  possibly  compare  with 
the  garden  scene  in  front  of  IMax  Harkaway's 
house  in  this  production,  while  as  for  the  acting — 
well,  there  is  the  cast  to  speak  for  itself. 

Some  of  the  best  performances  I  have  ever  seen 
were  given  at  the  little  house  in  the  Haymarket, 
where  I  saw,  in  one  season,  Macready,  Charles 
Kean,  James  Wallack,  Phelps,  Tyrone  Power, 
Webster,  Strickland,  AVrencli.  Charles  Mathews, 
ttowe,  Tom  Stuart,  and  A\"illiairi  Farren  "  The 
Cock  Salmon " ;  Helen  Faucit,  Ellen  Tree,  Mrs 
Warner,  Mrs  Nisbett,  Madame  ^^estris,  Miss  P. 
Horton,  and  Mrs  Glover  I 

'  Think  of  that.  Master  Brooke  ! '  Doesn't  it  take 
your  breath  away  ? 

At  this  very  time  the  Keeleys  were  at  the  Lyceum 
with  a  very  fine  company,  and  soon  afterwards  they 
joined  forces  with  Charles  Kean  at  the  Princess's,  when 
the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  "  Richard  II.,"  "  Henry  V.,"  and 
"Henry  ^"III."  were  splendidly  decorated,  although 
the  cast  could  not  compare  with  Macready 's.  The 
same  remark  may  apply  to  Phelps's  admirable  and, 
indeed,  amazing  work,  which  attracted  all  the  edu- 
cated world  to  a  wretched,  tumble-down  theatre  in 
a  remote  suburb.  '  *  '  'j  /.i^ 

I  learnt  all  I  know  of  dramatic  art  from  these 
great  artists,  and  cannot  be  too  thankful  that  I 
was  privileged  to  see  them  at  their  zenith.  Many 
of  them  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  know  hereafter. 
Indeed,  I  may  say  I  knew  them  all,  save  the  great- 
est.    To  me,  at  all  times,  Macready  was 

"  Like  a  comet,  to  be  wondered  at  but 
Not  to  be  approached  !  " 

In  those  days  I  was  a  Pitite,  and  appreciated 
the  play  all  the  more  because  I  paid  for  the  en- 
joyment ;  and  when  I  didn't  enjoy  it,  I  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  speaking  my  mind. 

The  Haymarket,  apart  from  its  central  position, 
was  my  favourite  theatre.  I  could  see  and  hear 
there  better  than  anywhere  else — then  tliey  always 

45 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

had  the  best  comedy  company  in  I^ondon,  and 
when  they  tragedised  they  had  the  pick  of  the 
patent  theatres. 

One  night,  in  the  summer  of  1837,  the  play 
was  "The  Bridal,"  adapted  by  INIacready  and 
Sheridan  Knowles  from  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy "  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletclier.  INIacready  was  at  his  best 
in  jNI  elan  tins — and  when  at  his  best  no  one  came 
within  measurable  distance  of  the  'mighty  Mac' 

Haines,  a  popular  minor  theatre  dramatist  of  the 
period  (author  of  ''  JNIy  I*oll  and  my  Partner  .Toe " 
— a  rattling  nautical  piece  which  I  saw  at  the  Surrey 
w4th  T.  P.  Cooke  as  the  hero),  and  a  deuced  good 
actor,  played  the  wicked  King  Arcanes.  I^ittle 
Elton  was  the  xVmintor,  and  the  stately  and  majes- 
tic Mrs  Warner  (or  was  she  Miss  Huddart  then?) 
was  the  Evadne,  while  Miss  Taylor,  the  charming 
Helen  of  "  The  Hunchback "  (afterwards  Walter 
I^acy's  wife),  was  usually  the  Aspasia.  On  this 
occasion,  however,  being  indisposed,  a  young  lady 
whom  I  had  never  seen  before,  a  Miss  Alison, 
took  her  place.     Of  course,  you  know  the  play  ? " 

{''Rather!     Fve  acted  Me/antius") 

"  Well,  then,  you  know  Aspasia,  who  has  been 
jilted  by  Amintor,  is  still  in  love  with  the  fella, 
and  disguises  herself  as  a  page  to  attend  upon 
him." 

("/  remember.'') 

"As  usual,  I  sat  in  the  fi'ont  row  of  the  pit.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  impression  that  Aspasia's 
first  appearance  as  the  page  made  on  me.  To  say 
that  she  was  beautiful  would  give  but  the  faintest 
idea  of  the  charm  of  her  personality.  Her  so-called 
disguise  ser^  ed,  not  to  conceal,  but  to  reveal  in  all 
its  beauty  the  glowing  outlines  of  that  graceful 
form. 

Although  so  perfectly  proportioned,  she  was  a 
leetle — yes,  just  a  leetle  below  the  middle  height. 
Her  complexion  was  fair,  her  face  oval,  her  nose  a 
delicate  aquiline,  with  almost  transparent  nostrils, 
her  lips  twin   cherries,  her  teeth  of  dazzling  white- 

46 


ASPASIA 

ness,  her  eyes  large  and  lustrous ;  her  neck  and 
shoulders  and  her  limbs,  above  and  below,  were 
superbly  moulded,  while  her  voice  melted  into 
music  at  every  utterance. 

Remember,  I'm  speaking  of  more  than  twenty 
years  ago,  when  I  was  as  susceptible  as  this  dainty 
creature  was  attractive. 

What  is  it  Knowles  says  in  one  of  his  high- 
falutin'  rhodomontades  ?  "  In  joining  contrasts  lieth 
love's  delights." 

And  so  I  suppose  it  came  to  pass  that  I,  a 
great  hulking  six-footer,  had  no  eyes  for  anyone 
that  night  but  that  seductive,  alluring  little  Gany- 
mede. 

"  It  is  the  very  error  of  the  moon  : 
She  comes  more  near  the  earth  than  she  was  wont 
And  makes  men  mad  ! " 

I  verily  believe,  could  I  have  got  at  that 
charming  creature  that  night,  I  should  have  flopped 
upon  my  knees  and  have  besought  her  to  come  and 
get  spliced  there  and  then. 

Had  she  been  weak  enough  to  assent,  a  pretty 
kettle  of  fish  we  should  have  made  of  it.  I  should 
have  forfeited  my  Fellaship,  and  we  should  have 
been  a  pair  of  paupers  and,  probably  (since  the 
Reades  are  a  prolific  race),  the  propagators  of  a  race 
of  paupers ! 

Fortunately,  however,  I  did  not  meet  her.  I 
saw  her,  however,  every  night  after  that,  till  the 
end  of  the  season,  when  she  disappeared  like  a  flash 
of  lightning. 

I  disappeared  too. 

From  the  time  I  had  read  "The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  "  Rob  Roy,"  and  "  Waverley,"  the  land  of 
the  mountain  and  "  the  flood "  had  an  irresistible 
attraction  for  me.  I  had  no  friends  or  acquaint- 
ances in  Scotland,  but  one  of  my  Oxford  chums 
gave  me  an  introduction  to  his  people  in  the  High- 
lands,   and    I    had    the   pleasure    of   tramping   over 

47 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

every  inch  of  Rob  Roy's  country,  with  the  young 
laird,  who  was  himself  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
gallant  cateran.  From  the  Highlands  I  went  to 
Edinburgh,  where  I  made  holiday  regularly  after- 
wards for  two  or  three  consecutive  summers,  roaming 
up  hill  and  down  dale,  over  the  lakes  and  through 
the  Caledonian  Canal,  always  returning  with  re- 
doubled zeal  to  the  Canongate,  Holyrood,  the  Castle, 
the  Calton  Hill,  and  Arthur's  Seat,  while  every 
night  found  me  ensconced  in  the  front  row  of  the 
pit  at  the  Theatre  Royal. 

When  the  company  migrated  during  the  summer 
to  the  Adelphi  at  the  head  of  Leith  Walk,  I  followed. 

("  /  remcmhcr !  It  was  then  I  first  saw  you — 
you  and  youi' flannels  and  your  straw  hat") 

Yes ;  and  it  was  then,  you  young  villain,  that 
you  fellas  christened  me  "The  Mad  Sailor."  Ah  1 
Well,  I  suppose  I  was  a  little  erratic  in  those  days. 

What  a  splendid  company  you  had  I  Edmund 
Glover,  Wyndham  (Handsome  Bob!),  William 
Howard,  INIaynard,  I^loyd,  Ray,  Bedford,  Melrose, 
Reynolds,  George  Honey,  Leigh  Murray,  and 
Mackay,  Mrs  Leigh  IMurray,  the  beautiful  .Julia 
St  George,  that  dainty  little  duck  Clara  Tellett, 
Miss  Cleaver,  and  Miss  Nicoll.  The  leader  of  the 
orchestra  was  INIackenzie,  a  capital  fiddler,  and 
father  of  Alexander  Mackenzie  of  that  ilk. 

Then  there  was  Murray  himself. 

What  a  comedian ! — one  of  the  best,  if  not  the 
very  best  I  ever  saw. 

I  had  for  my  half-crown  (or  was  it  three  shillings  ?), 
none  of  your  beastly  runs,  where  the  actors  get  stodgy 
and  stupid,  the  actresses  inane  and  inarticulate,  but 
a  new  play  every  other  night,  with  every  function 
of  mind  and  body  quickened  into  activity — aflame 
with  intellectual  fire ! 

I  knew  no  one — not  a  living  soul  in  Auld  Reekie — 
save  the  actors  and  actresses,  to  whom  I  never  spoke 
then,  but  whom  I  seem,  after  the  lapse  of  all  these 
years,  to  recall  as  the  dear  friends  and  companions  of 
my  lonely  youth. 

48 


CHRISTIE   JOHNSTONE 

It  was  during  one  of  these  vacations  that  I 
drifted  down  to  Newhaven,  and  became  acquainted 
with  Christie  Johnstone  and  her  belongings. 

Yes,  sir !    I  was   the    Ipsden  of  the   story,   and 

Christie,  dear  Christie,  was but  that  concerns  no 

one  but  my  darling  and  myself! 

During  one  of  these  excursions  I  was  tempted 
to  go  into  the  herring  trade.  (I  was  always  prone  to 
speculate !)  Bad  sailor  as  I  was,  I  more  than  once 
went  out  all  night  with  my  crew. 

^^^hen  day  broke  we  were  always  ravenous,  and 
broke  fast  with  scores  of  herring  broiled,  with  scones, 
oatcake,  and  butter,  and  coffee  to  follow. 

W^ere  herring  the  dearest  in  price,  the  gourmand' 
would  pronounce  the  siher-sided  little  beggar  tlie 
most  delicious  fish  that  swims  the  sea.  Those  who 
have  never  tasted  him,  fresh  from  the  net,  broiled 
over  the  brazier,  don't  know  what  the  taste,  the 
delicious  taste,  means. 

AMien  Christie  and  I  agi-eed  to  differ  (alas ! 
that  it  should  be  so),  I  shook  the  dust  of  Scotland 
from  my  feet,  and  it  was  many  a  long  day  ere 
I  crossed  the  Tweed  again. 

You  mustn't  suppose  that  I  was  all  this  time 
merely  sight-seeing,  play-going,  philandering,  and 
herring-fishing.  All  the  time  I  was  still  preparing 
for  my  profession  as  a  playwright.  I  wrote  plays — 
but  could  get  no  one  to  look  at  'em — and  yet  God 
only  knows  how  precious  a  little  sympathy  would 
have  been  at  that  time. 

^^'hen  I  got  back  to  town  after  the  tiff"  at  New- 
haven  the  theatres  were  closed,  so  I  went  down  to 
Maudlen.  The  long  vacation  was  on,  and  no  one  there 
except  the  players,  but  that  £30  for  "  Peregi'ine 
Pickle "  was  a  caution.  I  severely  kept  away  and 
went  down  to  Ipsden,  where  my  reception  was 
arctic ;  the  stern  parents  having  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  I  had  wasted  my  opportunities,  and 
that  there  was  little  prospect  of  their  young  hopeful 
becoming  a  bishop. 

Oxford  a  desert — Ipsden  an  ice-house — Edinburgh 
D  49 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

impossible,  I  concluded  to  return  to  town  although 
it  was  almost  empty. 

The  foreign  restaurants  in  Soho,  their  salads, 
their  omelettes,  their  savoury  messes,  and  their 
habitues,  attracted  me  because  of  their  economy, 
and  interested  me  because  of  their  novelty.  One 
night,  while  dining  at  the  Casque  d'Or,  I  rubbed 
shoulders  with  a  bright  little  Frenchman,  who  spoke 
English  fluently,  and  who  I  found  to  be  as  great  a 
theatrical  maniac  as  myself. 

He  had  been  mixed  up  in  some  conspiracy  (I 
shrewdly  suspect  it  was  in  connection  with  Fieschi 
and  the  infernal  machine),  but  the  little  beggar  had 
an  engaging  manner,  a  facile  tongue,  and  a  ready 
wit ;  so  I  invited  him  to  come  and  tiike  tea  with 
me,  and  very  pleasant  company  I  found  him  over 
tea  and  toast  and  an  occasional  muffin. 

Henri  (that  was  his  name,  or  at  any  rate  the 
name  he  took)  was  a  fiddle-maker  by  profession. 
He  played  beautifully,  made  fiddles,  repaired  them, 
could  tell  at  sight  a  Cremona  from  a  Stradivarius, 
and  knew  the  origin  and  ownership  of  nearly  e\  ery 
fiddle  in  Europe.  1  showed  him  mine,  told  him  it 
cost  me  twenty  guineas.  "  ^Vorth  two  hundred," 
he  said.  "  Belonged  at  one  time  to  Paganini  him- 
self. Listen ! "  \\^ith  that,  he  unstrung  three 
strings,  played  a  fantasia  on  the  Carnival  of  \^enice 
on  one,  and  won  my  heart ! 

He  wanted  financing,  I  wanted  a  fad,  and  we 
went  into  partnership.  He  was  willing  to  teach, 
and  I  was  anxious  to  learn,  and  devoted  myself 
heart  and  soul  to  the  business.  AVe  began  to 
import  old  fiddles  from  abroad,  expecting  to  coin 
money  out  of  them. 

After  a  few  months  business  seemed  promising, 
when  lo !  an  imperative  mandate  from  JMadame 
INlere  requiring  my  immediate  presence  at  Ipsden. 

We  were  just  then  engaged  in  some  interesting 
experiments  in  compounding  a  delicate  tint  for 
staining  and  varnishing  our  fiddles.  It  was  my 
hobby  —  Henri   left   this   department   to   me,    so   I 

60 


THE   VINERIAN   LAW   SCHOLARSHIP 

concluded  to  take  three  or  four  fiddles  and  my 
varnishing  stuff  with  me  and  continue  my  experi- 
ments at  Ipsden. 

Although  riled  with  me  herself,  the  mater 
couldn't  bear  anyone  else  to  be  angiy  with  her 
*'  Baby,"  as  she  called  me,  and,  angry  or  not,  she 
never  lost  sight  of  my  interests. 

Now  she  had  got  a  straight  tip  from  her  friends 
INIacBride  and  Ellerslie,  that  a  valuable  bit  of  pre- 
ferment had  turned  up  at  Maudlen  in  the  shape  of 
the  Vinerian  law  scholarship,  and  she  resolved  that 
1  should  have  it. 

This  plum  depended  upon  the  votes  of  the 
Masters  of  Arts,  and  as  a  rule  was  "  a  put-up  job," 
managed  with  closed  doors,  by  the  rcmdent  masters. 
Mother  knew,  however,  that  the  ;/o;z-residents 
formed  the  great  majority,  so  what  does  my  lady  do 
but  take  out  her  carriage  and  pair,  and  canvass  each 
and  every  one  of  the  non-residents  in  Berks  and 
Oxon,  hence,  those  who  had  their  own  carriages 
swarmed  into  the  City  to  vote  for  their  old  friend's 
son,  while  the  mater  provided  carriages  for  those 
who  liad  no  conveyances  of  their  own,  with  the  result 
that  I  was  returned  in  triumph  at  the  head  of 
the  poll. 

The  Squire  liad  taken  the  precaution  to  invite 
all  our  friends  to  a  jolly  good  dinner,  after  whicli 
we  drove  to  Ipsden,  where  I  remained  for  some  time 
on  my  best  behaviour,  continuing,  on  the  quiet,  my 
colouring  experiments  in  my  bedroom  in  the  front 
part  of  the  liouse,  which,  by  the  way,  had  just  had  a 
coat  of  white  lead  from  top  to  bottom,  pricked  out 
with  marble.  I  had  never  seen  the  old  place  look 
so  spnice  before. 

One  bright  morning  the  sun  rose  at  six,  and  I 
rose  with  it  and  let  drive  at  my  beloved  fiddles 
with  amber  and  copal  and  all  the  rest  of  my  wonder- 
ful compound.  Then  opening  the  windows,  I  left 
them  on  the  sills  baking  in  the  sun,  while  I  ad- 
journed to  the  matutinal  tub. 

When  I  got  down  to  breakfast  the  mater  was 

51 


,/ 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

more  than  usually  pleasant,  but  the  Squire  who  was 
coming  up  the  broad  walk  let  out  a  yell.  I  rushed 
out,  enquiring  "  Wliat's  the  matter,  sir  ? " 

"  JNIatter  !  "  he  roared.  "  Look  there  !  That's 
what's  the  matter  !  " 

Looking  up,  to  my  horror  I  beheld  my  luckless 
fiddles.  Instead  of  baking  in  the  sun,  as  I  had 
anticipated,  the  infernal  stuflf'  had  melted  like  butter 
and  streamed  down  the  front  of  the  house,  defiling 
it  with  all  kinds  of  hideous  abominations  in  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow ! 

When  angered,  the  Squire  had  a  copious  and 
Horid  vocabulary,  and  he  "went"  for  me  all  he  knew. 
1  knew  better  tlian  to  answer  him,  so,  I  packed  up 
my  stock-in-trade,  bade  motlier  good-bye,  and  once 
more  departed  in  disgrace. 

To  make  matters  pleasanter,  1  had  not  only  not 
obtained  the  requisite  tijit,  but  had  actually  spoiled 
two  or  three  fiddles  into  the  bargain,  which  didn't 
tend  to  promote  friendly  relations  between  me  and 
my  partner. 

A\^hen  the  friction  had  become  almost  unendur- 
able, I  met  young  Morris  (the  son  of  \A'^ebster's 
predecessor  at  the  Haymarket)  at  the  Cafe  de 
I'Europe  where  1  had  dropped  in  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 
After  this  we  met  nearly  every  niglit  at  the  theatre 
and  had  become  rather  chummy,  so  when  he  told 
me  he  was  going  en  gar  ran  to  France  and  Switzer- 
land for  a  couple  of  months,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  join  him. 

AVhy  he  took  us  round  by  Havre  instead  of 
going  by  Calais  or  Boulogne  I  haven't  the  most 
distant  idea. 

I'm  a  villainously  bad  sailor,  and  had  an  awful 
passage,  but  on  reaching  terra  Jirvia  I  soon  pulled 
myself  together,  and  off  we  started  for  Paris  by 
diligence.  Railways  were  in  their  infancy  at  home, 
and  had  scarcely  started  abroad,  and  we  w^ere  nearly 
twenty-four  hours  in  getting  from  Havre  to  Paris — 
we  can  get  there  in  three  now. 

The  only  notable  object  we  caught  sight  of  in 


^  62 


FIRST   PEEP  AT   PARIS 

our  journey  (and  that  was  only  a  passing  glimpse) 
was  the  Cathedral  Church  of  Rouen — a  noble  edifice, 
truly. 

I  should  like  to  have  explored  the  city  to 
ascertain  whether  Joan  was  burnt  ali\'e,  and,  if  so,  who 
cremated  the  poor  dear — French  bishops  or  British 
barbarians — or  was  she  cremated  at  all  ? 

An  ingenious  Frenchman  has  recently  written 
a  book,  proving  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  she 
escaped,  married,  had  a  numerous  family,  and  died 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity  at  Domremy. 

All  our  traditions  are  going  by  the  board  !  The 
Countess  of  I^esmond,  and  Bulwer  between  them 
have  botli  deprived  poor  Richard  of  liis  hump  (how 
would  Charley  Kean  get  on  without  that,  I  should 
like  to  know  ?) ;  and  when  I  reached  Switzerland  a 
learned  (ierman  assured  me  that  AVilliam  'I'ell, 
Albert,  and  the  apple  were  pure  m)i:hs ! 

T  can't  bear  to  be  disillusioned  thus.  No !  give 
me  King  Dick  with  his  hump  and  his  bandy  legs, 
and  Joan— dear  old  Joan  ! — with  her  bonfire,  and  Tell 
with  his  bow  and  arrow,  his  Albert  and  his  apple — 
above  all,  with  his  Macready  ! 

The  longest  day  must  have  an  end,  and  at  length 
we  got  to  Paris. 

I  wasn't  so  much  impressed  M'ith  the  gay  city  as 
I  expected  to  be.  The  Tuileries,  the  Louvre,  the 
Luxembourg,  the  Palais  de  Justice,  the  Invalides,  and 
the  Palais  Royale  were  interesting ;  the  boule^^ards 
were  full  of  life  and  animation  at  night  and  quite 
a  novelty  to  me.  Versailles,  stupendous  but  empty 
and  funereal  (the  brutes  Avouldn't  let  me  see  the 
pictures!);  Notre  Dame  disappointing,  dull,  and  de- 
pressing. 

The  theatres  were  as  shabby  and  dilapidated  as 
our  own  old  dust-holes,  and,  entre  nous,  I  was  not 
knocked  all  of  a  heap  with  the  acting.  I  had  heard 
two     or    three    travelled    monkeys    in   Oxford   say,  .    /. 

"  Wait  till  you  see  Frederick,  Boccage,  De  Launay,  \Jkn^  **'* 
Fargeuil,  Favart,  Marie  Laurent,  ^fadeliiie  Brohan, 
and  Rachel!" 

53 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Well,  I  did  see  them — saw  them  under  diffi- 
culties, 1  admit,  because  at  that  time  1  was  not 
phonetically  familiar  with  the  language. "^ 

I  made  a  study,  however,  of  "  Huy  Bias  "  before 
going  to  see  "Frederick,"  and,  tell  it  not  in  Ciath  ! 
the  young  actor  who  played  Don  Ca?sar  knocked 
the  great  man  into  a  cocked  hat.  Hut  then  lUiy 
Bias  is  five  -  and  -  twenty,  and  "  Frederick  "  was 
five-and-fifty  if  a  day,  and  looked  it !  But  see  him 
in  llobert  Macaire!  He  is  superb— unapproachable 
in  this  sublime  piece  of  buffoonery. 

Uaclicl,  whose  acting  (apart  from  the  absurd 
traditions  of  the  French  stage)  more  nearly  ap- 
proaches the  methods  of  the  best  English  actresses, 
miglit  pcrliaps  stand  beside  Mrs  AN'urncr  in  Lady 
Macbeth  were  it  not  for  the  Englishwoman's  magni- 
ficent presence,  but  she  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to 
Helen  Faucit  in  Juliet  and   Rosalind. 

I  saw  the  great  little  woman  in  l^hcdre,  which 
she  galvanised  into  life  by  the  fire  of  her  genius,  but 
oh— oh  !  M.  Racine,  what  a  rattling  up  of  dry  Ijt^nes 
over  the  frustrated  fornication  of  IMicdre !  .\fter 
I  had  seen  it  I  wanted  '*  an  ounce  of  civet  to 
sweeten  my  imagination." 

I  tried  to  sit  out  Monte  Cristo,  but  couldn't !  Of 
course  you  know  it  took  three  nights — but  (jne  dose 
sufficed  for  me. 

Tiie  most  interesting  thing  I  saw  was  Dumas's 
play  "  The  I^ady  of  Belle  Isle,"  which  I  had  also 
taken  the  precaution  to  interpret  with  the  aid  of 
a  dictionary.  To  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  I 
followed  the  players  with  my  book. 

The  play  was  most  interesting,  and,  I  thought, 
admirably  acted.  The  great  centre  of  interest, 
however,    was    the    renowned    Mademoiselle    ^lars, 

*  "  My  attempts  at  speaking  French  are  said,  by  those  who 
delight  in  remote  analogies,  to  resemble  the  convulsive  efforts  of  a 
chimney-sweeper  to  swarm  up  a  fresh  soaped  pole  to  that  joint  of 
mutton  which  he  never  attains. 

"  At  the  bath  last  night  I  asked  for  a  comb  ;  the  attendant  nodded 
assent — and  brought  me  an  egg  !  " — Letter  to  his  brother  IVilliam. 

54 


MADEMOISELLE   MARS 

who,  you  will  doubtless  remember,  was  said  to  have 
been  one  of  the  numerous  chores  amies  of  the  little 
Corporal.  If  it  were  so,  I  admire  the,  little 
bla'guard's  taste  and  envy  his  good  fortune.     <'{^,.,.t. 

This  wonderful  woman  had,  so  it  was  said, 
turned  threescore  and  ten,  yet  ^lorris  assured  me 
that  only  a  short  time  previous  to  our  visit  she  had 
actually  played  with  acceptance  and  enthusiasm  an 
ingenue  of  seventeen  !  Had  I  not  been  told  other- 
wise, I  should  have  taken  her  for  a  superb  creature 
of  thirty.  I  thought  her  adorable ;  but  her  art  was 
more  adorable  still.  She  would  have  inspired  a 
statue. 

How  I  envied  the  fellow  that  played  "  Dau- 
bigne  "  !  * 

The  heat  in  Paris  was  so  oppressive  that  we 
only  stayed  about  three  weeks,  then  Morris  began 
humming — 

"  Am  not  I — Am  not  I 
A  merry  Swiss  Boy  ? — 
Then  Hey  !  To  the  mountains  away  !  " 

We    were    three    days — three    whole    days    and 

*  Apropos  of  the  lady  who  appears  to  have  made  so  vivid  an 
impression  on  the  ever-susceptible  Reade,  Arsene  Houssaye,  in  his 
delightful  recollections  of  his  management  of  the  National  Theatre, 
relates  an  anecdote  so  pitjuant  that  I  venture  to  quote  it  here. 

In  the  days  of  the  Lower  Empire,  poor  Mademoiselle  Mars 
had  fallen  on  bad  times. 

Now,  whatever  were  the  bad  qualities  of  Napoleon  Le  Petit, 
lack  of  generosity  was  not  one  of  them.  Hence,  besides  providing 
for  the  immediate  necessities  of  his  uncle's  old  friend,  an  Imperial 
Edict  was  issued,  according  her  a  benefit  at  the  Fran^ais,  which 
brought  her  into  frequent  contact  with  the  manager. 

Thinking  to  improve  the  occasion  by  a  little  playful  badinage, 
Houssaye,  with  somewhat  dubious  taste,  inquired,  apropos  of  her 
alleged  intimacy  with  the  Little  Corporal : 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  have  been  told  Monsieur  Talma  was  went 
to  say  that  when  you  called  at  the  Tuileries  to  make  your  adieux 
to  the  Emperor  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Russia  His  Majesty 
was  so  engrossed  studying  the  map  of  Europe  that  he  scarce 
bestowed  a  word  on  you." 

"  No  such  thing.  Monsieur  I — 'tis  a  vile  calumny  I  "  exclaimed 
the  indignant  old  lady.  "The  adorable  creature  was  engrossed  in 
studying  Me  ! — /  was  hii  map  of  Europe  !  " 

55 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

nights  getting  to  Geneva.  Talk  of  the  heat  in 
Paris !  ^Ve  liad  rushed  out  of  the  frying-pan  into 
the  fire. 

We  rode  in  the  dihgence  without  coat,  vest,  or 
neck-cloth,  and  if  there  hadn't  been  women  in  the 
coupe,  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  have  dispensed 
with  my  pantaloons  ! 

Thank  God !  at  last  we  came  to  anchor  at 
Rufenacht's  hotel  in  Geneva,  where  we  slept  with- 
out blankets,  and  with  the  windows  (which  were 
like  folding-doors)  wide  open  all  night. 

When  the  heat  subsided  before  the  cool  breezes 
of  the  lakes  and  the  breath  of  the  snow-topped 
mountains,  we  had  a  high  old  time  of  it.  Such  life, 
such  animation,  such  geniality,  such  gaiety!  We 
have  nothing  like  it  in  our  own  dear,  stuck-up, 
old  country. 

Then  such  appetites  1  Not  that  1  ever  needed 
any  incentive  in  that  direction. 

I  am  a  pagan — always  was — love  everything 
lovely  in  nature,  or  art  either,  and  thoroughly 
enjoyed  myself. 

We  were  like  two  big  schoolboys  out  for  the 
holidays.  We  did  what  we  liked,  dressed  as  we 
liked,  ate  what  we  liked,  drank  what  we  liked — and 

did  not   care   the  decimal  part  of  a duck's  ^gg 

for  jNIother  Grundy  and  all  her  beastly  brood  ! 

When  tired  with  climbing  up  the  JNIauvaise 
Langue  or  the  Dent  du  Midi,  we  bathed  in  puris 
naturalibus  at  the  first  convenient  lake ;  when  we 
couldn't  do  that,  we  tubbed  at  the  Baths ;  and 
when  the  old  woman  asked  us  whether  we  took 
it  with  "  Garnish  "  or  without,  we  —  but  I  forget ! 
That  Charles  Reade  was  a  young  man  (would  he 
were  young  now !)  —  tliis  is  an  old  one,  and  "  an 
old  man  will  still  be  talking  "  of  his  youth. 

Ah  me !  why  can't  we  be  always  young  ? 

August  came  all  too  soon ;  then,  not  having  the 
purse  of  Fortunatus,  we  had  to  turn  our  thoughts 
homeward. 

For  twelve   months  I  had   been   banished  from 

56 


RETURN  OF  THE  IMPENITENT  FIDDLER 

Ipsden,  and  had  made  up  my  mind  never  to  darken 
the  doors  of  the  Manor-house  again,  until  the  Squire 
had  taken  back  some  of  his  hard  words.  Mother 
had  written  over  and  over  again — more  especially 
at  Christmas — urging  the  return  of  the  wanderer 
but  I  had  remained  obdurate. 

Recently  letters  had  passed  and  repassed.  I 
had  written  elaborate  descriptions  of  Paris  and 
Geneva,  the  Mater  had  responded  with  good  advice, 
and,  better  still,  witli  a  banker's  draft  to  help  cover 
the  expenses  of  the  outlay.  I  was  touched  by  her 
entreaties,  and — shall  1  confess  it  ?  sneak  that  I 
was !  still  more  by  the  approach  of  the  shooting 
season. 

Then  brother  Bill,  who  had  been  round  the  world, 
and  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  ages,  had  come  home, 
from  whence  he  wrote  me  a  private  and  confidential 
communication,  that  the  birds  were  strong  on  the 
wing,  and  that  one  day  the  Squire,  in  broaching  the 
second  bottle  after  dinner,  liad  let  out  in  a  genial 
mood,  "  I  hope  that  foolish  boy  of  mine  will  be  in 
time  for  the  birds,  and  that  he  will  lea\'e  that 
infernal  fiddle  behind  him." 

That  determined  me,  and  I  wrote  the  Mater  that 
I  had  magnanimously  resolved  to  forget  and 
forgive,  and  I  also  wrote  the  governor  a  long 
letter  about  my  travels,  winding  up  by  saying  he 
might  expect  me  in  time  to  pay  my  devoirs  before 
the  shrine  of  Saint  September. 

I  was  glad  to  find  myself  once  more  in  Mother's 
arms.  The  Squire  received  me  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Bill  and  I  went  out  with  our  old  keeper 
Johnson  to  astonish  the  birds,  and  that  night  the 
fatted  calf  was  killed  to  welcome  the  return  of  the 
prodigal — but,  I  fear,  impenitent  fiddler." 


67 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DEAN  OF  ARTS,  OXON 

After  tlie  Shooting  —  Scotland  re-visited — Auld  Reekie  —  Eheu 
Fugaces ! — Retirement  of  William  Murray  —  Lloyd  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  —  VV'yndham  at  the  Adelphi  —  Glover  at  Glas- 
gow —  A  last  Look  at  Newhaven  —  Return  to  London  — 
Debt  and  Difficulties — Mr  Sloman  —  The  Sponging-House — 
A  Tragedy  in  a  Nutshell — En  ruule  to  the  Marshalsea,  when 
deus  ex  inachina  ! — Head  above  Water — Dean  of  Arts  — 
Honorary  Degree  of  M.A.,  Cambridge — At  Prince  Albert's 
Installation  as  Chancellor — Outr.ige  upon  John  Conington 
— Goldwin  Smith  and  Griffith  Gaiint 

"  Things  were  rosy  enough  while  the  shooting  went 
on — but  after  ? 

Ipsden  was,  and  always  will  be,  beautiful,  but  it 
was  not  the  Garden  of  Eden  of  old.  The  fact  was, 
I  had  found  a  paradise  elsewhere — a  forbidden  one, 
'tis  true,  for  the  beastly  stage-door  barred  my  way 
to  fame. 

On  the  other  hand,  mother  was  still  bent  on 
my  being  a  Bishop,  and  never  ceased  to  urge  upon 
me  the  importance  of  my  being  in  permanent 
residence  at  Oxford.  "  Besides,"  said  she,  "  look 
what  it  will  save  you  !  There's  the  common  room, 
the  senior  common  room,  the  run  of  the  larder,  and 
your  magnificent  chambers.  And  then  you  are 
always  near  home  ;  and  we're  sure  you  are  out  of 
mischief." 

It  was  idle  for  me  to  point  out  that  the  persistent 
hostility  of  my  colleagues  made  residence  at  Alma 
Mater  distasteful,  if  not  impossible. 

"  Of  course — of  course  1 "  rejoined  mother.     "  The 

58 


BONNIE   EDINBURGH   ONCE   MORE 

Theatre — that    pit     of    perdition — is     your     Ahna 
Mater ! " 

Then  father  put  in  his  spoke.  "  It's  the  fiddles, 
Maria,  those  cursed  fiddles.  To  think  that  a  son  of 
mine  should  ever  become  a  fiddler  I " 

I  endured  this  perpetual  nagging  as  well  as 
I  could ;  but  was  not  sorry  when  brother  Bill  and 
his  wife  (Number  Two)  invited  me  to  accompany 
them  to  Scotland,  where  they  were  going  to  look 
after  their  property. 

"  Caledonia  stern  and  wild "  has  always  been 
delightful  to  me,  and  Mrs  Bill  (a  charming  woman) 
had  sympathised  a  little  with  me  during  those 
wearisome  wiggings  at  Ipsden,  and  she  made  my 
visit  a  very  pleasant  one. 

The  best  of  friends,  however,  must  part.  My  visit 
came  to  an  end,  and  it  was  time  to  cross  the  Border. 

Passing  through  Edinburgh,  I  couldn't  resist 
the  temptation,  and  stayed  to  look  round.  As 
I  stood  opposite  the  Abbotsford  monument,  glancing 
at  the  old  town  before  me,  with  the  Castle  to  my 
right,  and  the  Calton  to  my  left,  I  thought  this  pearl 
of  cities  had  never  looked  so  beautiful. 

Then  I  strolled  to  the  theatre  at  the  foot  of  the 
North  Bridge.  Eheu !  Murray  had  retired  and 
gone  to  enjoy  the  othun  cum  dignitate at  St  Andrews. 
Lloyd  was  manager,  Wyndham  was  in  opposition 
at  the  Adelphi  at  the  head  of  Leith  Walk ;  Glover 
had  gone  to  Glasgow ;  while  Old  Mackay  still  re- 
mained a  hale  and  sturdy  evergreen. 

I^eith  !  Suppose  I  were  to  stroll  on  to  Newhaven 
— there  could  be  no  harm  in  my  seeing — seeing  Her 
— certainly  not ! 

As  I  strolled  down  Leith  Walk,  a  fine,  buxom 
young  hussy  of  a  fishwife,  balancing  a  huge  basket 
on  her  head,  strode  up  towards  the  city  singing  out 
"  Caller  haddie.     Wha'll  buy  my  fine  caller  haddie  ? " 

How  it  all  came  back  to  me  as  though  it  were 
yesterday ! 

I  wondered  whether  "  She'd  "  be  glad  to  see  me. 
I  should  soon  know,  anyhow. 

59 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

At  last  I  reached  Newhav^en.  AA^heii  I  approached 
the  house  the  door  was  wide  open  ;  and  the  old 
woman  was  "ben." 

"Christie,"  said  I,  "how's  Christie?" 

"  God's  truth ! "  and  she  dropped  her  knitting. 
"  Div  ye  na  ken  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head.     "  Where  is  she  ? "  I  repeated. 

"  There ! "  and  she  pointed  to  the  old  kirkyard 
beyond. 

I    made   my   way   there — and    then 1     Yes, 

then — I  crawled  back  to  Edinburgh. 

I  didn't  go  to  the  play  that  night.  Had  I  done 
so  "  She "  would  have  been  by  my  side,  as  she  had 
been  nuuiy  a  time  before  I 

I  took  the  night  mail  to  town,  and  next  day 
returned  to  my  fiddles. 

Fiddles  and  tombstones  I  AVell,  the  dance  of 
death  is  always  going  on,  but  the  grisly  old  beast 
twists  his  chords  out  of  our  heart  -  strings,  and 
prec  ious  discords  he  makes  of  'em  ! 

Being  a  genius,  Henri  had  by  no  means  a  com- 
mercial mind.  He  made  bargains,  'tis  true,  but  I 
had  to  pay  for  'em,  and,  consequently,  was  frequently 
involved  in  debt  and  difficulties. 

While  struggling  to  keep  the  pot  boiling  we 
nearly  came  to  grief  through  the  stupidity  and 
cupidity  of  the  custom  -  house  officials  at  South- 
ampton, who  laid  a  scandalous  embargo  upon  a 
valuable  consignment  of  fiddles  from  Holland. 

I  memorialised  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury  about 
this  business,  but  the  blockheads  took  no  heed  of 
my  appeal  for  justice.  Consequently,  1  had  to 
boiTow  money  at  usurious  interest  to  keep  going. 
As  I  couldn't  meet  my  engagements,  gentlemen  of 
the  bill-discounting  fraternity  began  to  squeeze  me, 
there  were  writs  and  judgments,  and  I  had  to  leave 
Oxford  and  lie  pe?xl 21. 

Just  at  this  period  came  news  of  a  discovery  of 
a  hoard  of  valuable  violins  in  Paris.  Henri  and  I 
were  at  London  Bridge  one  Monday  morning 
preparing  to  take  the  train  for  Dover,  when  enter 

60 


WITH  MR  SLOMAN  IN  CURSITOR  STREET 

Mr  Sloman  and  exit  Charles  Reade  in  a  cab  booked 
for  Cursitor  Street ! 

The  sensation  was  a  novel  one,  but  it  would  all 
come  in  for  my  next  play.  INIeanwhile,  what  was 
to  be  done  I 

'Twould  cause  a  public  scandal  were  the  news 
known  in  Oxford,  and  I  need  expect  no  help  from 
Ipsden  to  get  me  out  of  a  hole  in  which  fiddles 
had  figured. 

There  was  only  one  thing — to  send  for  my  brother 
Compton  and  take  his  advice. 

His  offices  were  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  he  was  with  me.  He  opened  fire 
with  an  awful  wigging.  Having  thus  unburthened 
his  mind,  he  sent  for  Sloman  (who  was  a  decent 
old  chap  in  his  way),  and  arranged  for  me  to  have 
three  days'  grace  before  sending  me  to  quod. 

'*  You  deserve  it  all  and  twice  as  much,  you 
and  your  d — d  fiddles  ! "  growled  Compton,  "  But 
there,  there !  don't  look  so  down  in  the  mouth ! 
I'll  see  you  through  ! " 

"  How  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  That's  my  business !  By-by  till  Thursday," 
and  off  he  went. 

I  had  a  bad  time  on  Tuesday,  for  I  knew  the 
dear  old  chap  had  a  large  family  and  a  hard  figlit 
to  make  both  ends  meet,  and  the  thought  of  involv- 
ing him  in  my  difficulties  was  not  to  be  endured. 

Wednesday  I  got  over  more  pleasantly,  for  my 
companions  in  captivity  were  for  the  most  part 
gentlemen,  and  more  or  less  interesting  in  their 
somewhat  unique  experiences. 

As  a  matter  of  detail,  I  may  remark  that,  ac- 
cording to  custom,  I  had  to  pay  my  footing  in  a 
magnum  of  champagne. 

One  handsome  young  swell  (a  right  honourable 
with  an,  historic  name,  a  lord  by  courtesy,  and  the 
next,  but  one,  in  succession  to  a  dukedom)  was  the 
life  and  soul  of  the  company,  and  kept  us  in  a  roar 
till  bedtime,  which,  by-the-by,  wasn't  till  past  two 
in  the  morning. 

61 


LOOKING    BACKAYARD 

Upon  getting  up,  1  inquired  anxiously  for  a 
letter.  When  1  found  none  my  heart  sank  into 
my  boots. 

Returning  through  the  waiting-room,  I  saw  the 
handsome  youngster  of  the  night  before  and  a  tall 
distinguished  girl  of  twenty  or  one-and-twenty, 
with  a  pale  face  and  large  dark  eyes.  She  was 
in  the  act  of  putting  a  flower  in  his  button-hole. 
His  arms  were  folded  tightly  on  his  chest,  his  face 
rigid  and  pale  as  death,  his  eyes  aflame  yet  fixed 
on  something  far  away. 

I  never  forgot   that   picture — never   shall   to  my 
dying  day ! 

I  had  barely  got  to  the  end  of  the  passage  when 
I  heard  two  shots  fired  in  rapid  succession.  Rush- 
ing back  I  found  the  boy  and  the  girl  both  dead 
and  lying  clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  On  the 
table  lay  a  hasty  scrawl :  "  Send  to  my  father  and 
tell  him  I  hope  he  is  satisfied  now.  Tell  mother 
to  pay  my  debts  and  see  that  we  are  buried 
together ! " 

Strange  to  say,  even  amidst  these  horrors,  the 
dramatic  significance  of  the  incident  struck  me. 
Stranger  still,  I  have  never  utilised  it  from  that 
day  to  this. 

The  catastrophe  fell  like  a  pall  upon  the  house — 
no  more  cards,  no  more  funny  stories,  no  more 
laughter  that  day.  To  enhance  the  horror  of  the 
situation,  the  dead  boy  and  girl  lay  in  the 
next  room  to  mine,  awaiting  the  inquest  on  the 
morrow. 

As  hour  succeeded  hour,  and  Compton  didn't 
turn  up,  my  agitation  increased.  Before  we  turned 
in  to  roost,  Sloman  came  and  said,  "  Twelve  o'clock 
to  -  morrow,  sir  —  the  Marshalsea  —  and  I  shall 
have   to  trouble  you  for   my  little   bill  before  you 

I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  that  night,  and  when  I 
got  down  in  the  morning  and  found  no  letter,  I 
couldn't  look  at  my  breakfast. 

The  inquest  was  fixed  for  one  o'clock.     Fortun- 

62 


THE   MATER  TO   THE   RESCUE 

ately,  I  should  escape  that,  for,  even  if  my  brother 
didn't  turn  up,  I  was  bound  to  clear  out  for  the 
Marshalsea  at  twelve. 

Alas !  when  twelve  came  there  was  still  no  sign 
of  Compton. 

Sloman  wanted  his  bill ;  I  had  no  money,  so 
had  to  leave  my  gold  repeater,  a  birthday  gift  from 
sister  Julia.  I  was  just  stepping  into  the  cab,  with 
the  tipstaff,  when  up  rolled  a  hansom  and  out  jumped 
dear  old  Compton,  who  paid  the  money,  redeemed 
my  repeater — and  I  was  free  1 

I  wanted  to  hug  him,  he  wanted  to  hug  me, 
but  Englishmen  ain't  built  that  way.  I  merely  said, 
"  You're  a  brick,  old  chap."  He  responded,  "  You're 
another." 

We  shook  hands  and  went  to  lunch  at  Vereys', 
and  made  a  real  good  one. 

"  How  did  you  work  the  oracle  ?  "  I  inquired. 
"  The  Mater.     She  has  sent  you  this  besides,"  and 
he  handed  me  a  Bank  of  England  note  for  £20. 
*'  How  did  she  take  it  ? " 

"Well,  she  bullied  me  awfully — declared  it  was 
all  my  fault,  and  that  I  ought  to  have  kept  you  out  of 
it.  When  I  ventured  to  inquire,  '  Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper  ? '  she  rounded  on  me  like  a  tigress.  '  Don't 
blaspheme,  sir  !  Don't  dare  !  As  for  that  wretched 
boy,  let  him  go  to  prison ;  let  him  stay  there  and 
starve  there  and — good  heavens  ! — here  comes  your 
father.  Not  a  word  to  him — not  a  syllable,  on  your 
life — he'd  never  forgive  my  poor  Baby.'" 
"  And  the  Squire  ?  " 

"  Oh,  when  he  came  in  he  let  fly  about  the 
Repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws — he  has  got  'em  on  the 
brain  !  He's  death  on  Peel,  and  would  hang  Cobden 
and  Bright  without  judge  or  jury.  He  softened  down 
a  bit  after  dinner,  and  when  he  had  pohshed  off  his 
bottle  of  port,  and  adjourned  to  the  arm-chair  for  his 
usual  forty  winks,  Nelly  came  in  and  beckoned  me 
out.  The  mater  was  waiting  in  her  own  room,  fixed 
as  fate.  '  Here's  a  cheque '  she  said.  '  Get  the 
wretch  out  of  that  dreadful  place  at  once ;  and  tell 

63 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

him   that  if  he  doesn't   turn  over  a  new   leaf  I've 
done  with  him  forever.'" 

"  Anxious  as  I  was  to  obey  the  mater,  I  couldn't 
cut  Henri  adrift  at  once.  I  talked  to  him  like  a 
father,  made  him  knife  our  expenses  down  to  the 
last  farthing,  removed  to  cheaper  lodgings  at  the 
back  of  Leicester  Square,  lived  like  an  anchorite, 
kept  regular  hours,  didn't  smoke  (filthy,  beastly 
habit!),  didn't  drink,  and — didn't  get  into  JeBll  I 
worked  like  a  nigger — no,  they  never  work  I — worked 
like  a  man ;  though,  of  course,  I  went  to  the  play 
every  other  night.  The  nights  I  didn't  go  I  stayed 
at  home  and  wrote  plays ;  while  at  intervals  I  paid 
periodical  visits  to  Ipsden  and  Oxford." 

Mother  was  the  most  delicate  and  high-minded 
of  women,  and  never  once  reminded  me  of  Sloman, 
and  I  never  recurred  to  the  subject  imtil,  after  a 
couple  of  years  of  scrupulous  economy,  I  walked 
over  from  Oxford  one  fine  morning  before  break- 
fast, and  put  a  packet  of  bank  notes  into  her  hand. 

"  Fasten  the  door  !  "  she  said.     "  Bolt  it !  " 

Then  she  took  out  the  notes  and  carefully 
counted  them. 

"  Sure  you  can  spare  them  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

Then  she  put  the  notes  in  her  desk  and  locked 
it.  "  Now  unfasten  the  door  and  let's  go  down  to 
breakfast." 

That  was  one  of  the  j  oiliest  breakfasts  I  ever 
ate  in  my  life.  She  was  radiant,  so  was  the  Squire, 
for  there  had  been  a  splendid  harvest,  and  the 
fishing  at  our  eyot  on  the  Thames  was  first-rate. 

After  breakfast  he  said,  "  Come  and  have  a  day's 
fishing,  Charlie." 

Off  we  went  and  had  a  ripping  day. 

After  a  pleasant  little  holiday  I  got  back  to 
my  plays  and  my  fiddles.  Fiddles  were  looking 
up — but  plays  nowhere.  No  one  would  look  at 
'em,  beastly  idiots ! 

I  had  been  elected  Probationer  in  1835.  It  was 
now  getting  towards  the  end  of  1844;  and  in  1845 

64 


yH-^_>- 


DEAN   OF   ARTS 

the  office  of  Dean  of  Arts,  tenable  for  a  year,  fell 
to  me  in  rotation. 

I  had  been  so  wretched  at  Oxford  that,  though 
the  refusal  of  the  option  would  have  debarred  me 
the  Vice-Presidency,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
would  have  none  of  it.  Mother,  however,  wouldn't 
hear  of  my  refusal ;  the  Squire  too  was  dead  against 
it ;  so  was  brother  Bill,  ^ly  principal  objection  was 
that  the  appointment  involved  twelve  months' 
residence. 

"  I  can't  stand  that,"  said  I.  "  Twelve  months' 
residence  among  those  fossils,  those  locusts  and 
hornets,  who  stink  as  well  as  sting  I " 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  retorted  Bill.  "Think  of 
the  honour  of  the  thing.  Besides,  you'll  be  able 
to  nominate  a  demy ;  and  as  for  residence,  I'll 
come  and  share  your  rooms."  -^.^^  ^7^*  h^.^ 

Then  mother  had  the  last  word  (she  always  did 
have  it !),  and  I  took  my  option  for  1845,  but  it 
wasn't  a  bed  of  roses,  I  can  tell  'ee. 

Dear  old  Routh,  INIacBride,  and  EUerslie  always  >*«^'^ 
received  me  witli  dignified  politeness,  if  not  with 
cordiality ;  but  as  for  the  other  antediluvian  duffers, 
though  I  made  a  martyr  of  myself  by  dining  in 
the  senior  common  room,  though  I  tried  to  laugh 
at  their  ponderous  jokes,  and  actually  played  whist 
with  them,  they  held  me  at  arm's-length. 

I  got  on,  however,  with  the  boys,  the  Demys, 
and  the  Gentlemen  Commoners ;  played  cricket, 
skittles,  and  bowls,  took  an  oar  in  their  boats, 
taught  'em  archery,  and  occasionally  gave  cosy  little 
dinners  in  my  own  rooms  to  especially  nice  chaps. 

Of  course,  I  could  neither  drink  nor  smoke,  but 
brother  Bill  could  do  both.  In  pursuance  of  his 
promise  he  stayed  with  me  three  or  four  weeks  at  a 
time,  took  care  that  my  young  friends  had  what  they 
liked,  and  (it  must  be  admitted)  sometimes  more 
than  was  good  for  them,  which  the  proctors  said 
was  scandalous. 

AVhat  would  you  ?  One  can't  please  everybody, 
you  know. 

E  65 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

For  my  part,  I  grinned,  and,  like  the  big  navigator 
whose  httle  wife  punched  his  head,  I  said  to  Bill,  "  It 
pleases  them  and  don't  hurt  I." 

On  one  of  the  little  cosies  aforesaid  we  had  a 
remarkably  fine  hare  which  Bill  had  shot  at  Ipsden. 
We  all  had  the  voracious  appetite  of  youth,  and  of 
course  the  back  didn't  go  all  round." 

"  Never  mind,  boys  !  I'll  make  it  up  next  time," 
said  I. 

Hares  were  scarce  that  season,  but  a  week  later 
I  persuaded  Bill  to  go  over  to  Ipsden  and  make  a 
deal  with  Jack  Slaughter,  the  local  poacher  (a  great 
chum  of  mine !),  and  I  went  myself  for  a  day's  sport 
to  the  'Varsity  grounds  at  Tugden.  Result — when 
we  met  next  day.  Bill  and  I  had  a  dozen  hares 
between  us. 

We  sent  one  each  to  Routh,  MacBride,  Ellerslie, 
and  Bernard  Smith. 

At  our  banquet  a  week  later  our  guests  (six 
Demys  and  Gentlemen  Commoners)  found  each  a 
whole  hare  before  him.  By  Jove !  what  a  Gargan- 
tuan roar  went  up,  and  what  Gargantuan  appetites 
we  had. 

When  we  had  done  with  'em  there  was  not  much 
of  those  hares  left,  I  can  tell  'ee. 

During  my  term  of  office  the  nomination  of  a 
Deniyship  fell  to  me.  Of  course,  if  a  member  of 
our  family  or  that  of  a  friend  had  been  eligible  I 
should  have  nominated  him  like  a  shot,  but  I  knew 
of  no  one. 

Sir  John  Chandos-Reade  of  Shipton  (who  bump- 
tiously arrogated  to  himself  the  title  of  the  head  of 
the  Reades)  evidently  knew  of  some  one,  for  he 
despatched  a  mandate,  couched  like  an  imperial 
ukase,  requiring  me  to  nominate  a  prot^g^  of  his  I 

(This  pig-headed  old  duffer  ultimately  disinherited 
his  own  children,  bequeathing  the  whole  of  his  estate, 
real  and  personal,  to  a  menial  in  his  employment ! 
Had  the  menial  in  question  been  his  natural  son  I 
could  have  understood  the  position,  but  even  idiots 
don't  make  flunkeys  of  their  own  flesh  and  blood !) 

66 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  AND  GRIFFITH  GAUNT 

Next  came  an  importunate  communication  from 
the  son  of  that  beast  Scourger  of  Kettlebury,  begging 
me  to  remember  the  many  benefits  I  had  received  at 
the  hands  of  his  father.  I  did  remember :  indeed,  I 
have  never  forgot  'em — never  shall  to  my  dying  day. 

As  for  the  "  head  of  the  house,"  I  informed  that 
gentleman  tliat,  being  young  and  inexperienced  (I 
was  thirty-four !),  I  had  transferred  the  nomination 
to  President  Routh,  who  was  much  better  adapted 
to  form  on  opinion  as  to  the  qualifications  of  a 
candidate  than  I  was. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
snubbing  my  blubber-headed  friend  the  baronet,  and 
heartily  glad  to  be  able  to  offer  Routh  this  slight 
acknowledgement  of  the  many  kindnesses  I  had 
received  at  his  hands. 

He  had  a  good  memory  had  John  Martin,  for 
soon  afterwards,  when  Albert  the  Prince  Consort 
was  installed  Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, the  dear  old  chap  nominated  me  to  receive 
the  honorary  degi'ee  of  M.A.  of  the  sister  university 
on  that  important  occasion. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  terminate  my  tenure  of 
office  (I  hope  with  credit  to  myself  and  the  'Varsity), 
an  untoward  accident  occurred  which  embittered  my 
relations  for  life  with  two  very  distinguished  men. 

Professor  Goldwin  Smith  and  his  friend  John 
Conington,  who  belonged  to  us,  had  attempted  to 
inaugurate  a  debating  society,  when  a  handful  of 
unmannerly  young  cubs,  resenting  this  attempt  to 
teach  them  political  economy,  ducked  poor  Con- 
ington under  the  college  pump.  Needless  to  say, 
had  I  been  present  I  would  have  stood  up  for 
him  as  long  as  I  had  breath  in  my  body ;  but  the 
impression  prevailed,  and,  I  believe,  does  to  this  day, 
that,  though  I  did  not  participate,  I  connived  at  this 
ruffianly  outrage.  Anyhow,  Smith  and  his  friend 
left  Maudlen  and  went  over  to  'Varsity  College, 
Ssidm.  whence  the  former  migi-ated  to  Canada,  and 
there  has  been  feud  between  us  from  that  day 
to  this. 

67 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

Of  course  you  remember  how  the  spiteful  beggar 
went  for  "  Griffith  Gaunt,"  wrote  a  mahgnant  hbel 
on  poor  GriHith  and  on  me  in  the  Atlantic  Monthltf, 
and  how  I  brought  an  action  for  slander  and  defama- 
tion of  cliaracter  ? 

To  prove  my  case,  1  engaged  George  Vanden- 
hofF,  the  tragedian,  to  read  the  book  in  open  court  to 
the  jury.  15ut  malice  is  a  bla'guurd,  and  ignorance 
a  wild  beast,  so  tlie  bla'guards  and  the  beasts  gave 
me  a  verdict  for  a  fartliing,  without  costs,  and  burked 
the  very  best  book  I  ever  wrote." 


68 


CHAPTER  V 

AT    HOME   AND   ABROAD 

Back  at  the  little  Village  —  Writes  Volumes  and  Volumes  of 
Notes  and  a  Score  of  Plays  at  which  no  one  will  look  or 
or  listen  to,  save  "  Melancholy  James,"  who  sugj^ests  that 
"Christie  Johnstone"  shall  be  turned  into  a  Burlesque, 
of  which  he  (James)  shall  be  the  Heroine — Fiddles  going 
to  the  Dogs — News  of  the  Discovery  of  a  Hoard  of  valuable 
Instruments  in  Paris — Reade  and  his  Partner  rush  over  and 
secure  them — The  Revolution  of  '48  bursts  forth  in  Fire  and 
Fury — The  Citizen  King  bolts — But  the  Narrator  is  in  the 
Thick  of  it — Reade,  Henri,  and  Co.  dissolve  Partnership  on 
the  Summit  of  a  Barricade  in  the  Rue  St  Honore — A  Look 
in  at  the  Legislative  Assembly — Lamartine — The  Duchess 
of  Orleans  and  her  little  Boy — Cremation  Coram  Populo 
—  Smuggled  over  the  Barriers — Back  in  Safety — The  Lord 
of  the  Manor  rejoins  his  Ancestors 

"  I  WAS  glad  to  relinquish  my  Deanship  at  the  end 
of  '46,  and  still  more  glad  to  leave  behind  me  the 
fossils  of  the  senior  common  room,  with  tlieir  sludgy 
port,  their  syrupy  madeira,  their  whist,  their  stale 
jokes  and  salacious  stories,  their  sordid  squabbles, 
and  to  feel  myself  once  more  in  touch  with  life — 
not  indeed  the  life  to  which  I  aspired,  but  still 
the  life  of  the  world,  the  life  of  men  and  women  ; 
not  the  living  death — the  petrifaction,  and,  I  may 
add,  the  putrefaction,  of  the  cloister. 

Imbued  with  these  views,  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  gone  into  Parliament,  and  done,  or  tried  to 
do,  something  to  make  the  world  a  little  better  than 
T  found  it ;  but,  like  the  bird  hypnotised  by  the 
basilisk,  I  was  enthralled  with  the  fatal  fascination 
which  had   taken   possession  of  me  from   boyhood, 

69 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

so  back  1  went  to  town,  and  the  beastly  but  beautiful 
th  eatre. 

Except  my  brother  Compton  and  my  cousin 
Faber,  I  had  few  acquaintances  and  no  friends. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  1  came  across  an  actor  or  two 
of  the  second-class,  and  was  wont  to  invite  them 
to  breakfast. 

On  these  occasions  I  got  up  earlier  than  usual, 
and  had  two  or  three  hours'  spell  at  my  plays  before 
they  came. 

When  they  did  come  they  were  capital  company. 
The  beggars  could  talk — ye  gods  !  how  they  could 
talk  ! — principally,  it  nuist  be  admitted,  about  them- 
selves and  their  peaceful  triumphs  :  how  they  had 
"  knocked "  the  audience  at  Bullocksmithy,  and 
electrified  them  at  Stoke  Pogis. 

All  the  same,  they  talked  about  the  play,  the 
players,  and  the  playhouse,  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
listen  ;  so  I  listened  and  learnt — I  was  always  learn  - 
ing  something.  One  of  my  especial  favourites  was 
Rogers,  Jimmy  Rogers,_as  he  was  called.  I  used 
16  calt  hnn  "  AlelanclToIy  James  "  by  way  of  variety. 

He  thought  me  mad,  and  I  was  sure  he  was. 
All  the  same,  we  got  on  capitally  together,  except 
when  I  read  him  my  plays,  and  then  he  invariably 
went  to  sleep  at  the  end  of  the  first  or  second  act. 

At  this  period  I  had  got  Christie  Johnstone  on 
the  brain,  and  had  written  a  rattling  play  about  her. 
I  thought  then,  and  think  now,  'twas  one  of  my  best ; 
but  I  couldn't  get  anyone  else  to  think  so. 

AVhen  I  read  it  to  my  melancholy  friend  he 
yawned  and  said,  "  Stunnin',  dear  boy !  Stunnin' 
for  a  burlesque.  Call  it,  *  Herrings  and  Rum  ;  or  the 
Chap  who  would  and  the  Gal  who  wouldn't ! '  and 
let  me  play  Christie,  and  there'll  be  barrels  of  money 
in  it ! " 

"  James,"  saidi  ,  "  you're  drunk  ! "  (I  always  kept 
a  bottle  of  gin  for  him,  which  generally  disappeared 
during  one  of  my  readings.)  "  AYhen  sober  you're 
an  ass,  when  tight  an  idiot ! " 

"  That's  where  I  have  the  pull  of  you,  dear  boy. 

70 


LA    BELLE   LUTETIA 

I  am  sometimes  rumbo,  but  you've  always  got  a 
tile  off.  Never  mind !  you're  a  brick  all  the  same  ; 
so,  good-bye.     God  bless  you  till  the  next  time." 

And  off  he  v^^ent,  generally  returning  a  week  or 
fortnight  later,  as  melancholy  as  usual,  or  more  so. 

jNIelancholy  as  he  was  off  the  stage,  he  was 
irresistibly  funny  on  it. 

Paris  now  became  very  attractive  to  me,  and, 
much  as  I  detested  the  sea,  in  the  summer  I  kept 
my  eye  on  the  weather-chart,  and,  when  the  Channel 
was  smooth,  often  slipped  over  to  La  Belle  Lutetia. 

Fortunately  I  had  secured  lodgings  with  a 
friendly  barber  who  used  to  be  at  Truefit's  in  Bond 
Street.  As  I  gave  little  trouble  (a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
roll  in  the  morning  set  me  up  till  my  dejeuner  a 
la  Jhurchette),  I  had  only  to  drop  a  line  beforehand, 
and  my  rooms  were  always  ready  at  a  reasonable 
price. 

In  one  respect  we  are  a  hundred  years  behind  the'- 
Parisian.  In  fine  weather  he  lives  in  the  open, 
and  sits  before  a  delightful  cafe  on  the  boulcAards, 
where  he  is  not  obliged  to  swallow  doses  of  liquid 
poison,  but  can  enjoy  himself  like  a  reasonable  being 
on  a  glass  of  lemonade,  eau  sucr^,  or  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Such  coffee  !     We  don't  know  how  to  make  it  here. 

At  these  times  the  true  Parisian  is  the  most 
complaisant,  delightful  personage  imaginable  ;  but  stir 
him  up — rights  of  man,  Liberte,  Egalite,  Frater- 
nite !  and  behold  the  metempsychosis,  ape  and 
tiger  rolled  into  a  devil,  as  I  had  occasion  to  learn 
hereafter. 

As  yet  I  had  not  written  a  book,  but  I  had 
studied  hard  ;  had  taken  notes  enough  to  fill  a 
hundred  volumes. 

In  Paris  my  daily  routine  was  tub,  scrub,  scribble, 
scribble  for  an  hour  or  two,  shave  and  hair  dress  at 
home,  dejeunei^  a  la  fourehette  at  noon  in  a  cremerie.  s 
Then,  hey !  for  pleasure  and  pictures !  J 

The  Salon,  Louvre,  Tuileries,  Luxembourg. 
Antiquities  and  sights,  Notre  Dame,  JMuseum,  the 
Column  A^endome,   Invalides,  Hotel    Cluny,  Moulin 

71 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 


^ 


.^' 


Roi^ge.  The  Gay  Mabille,  old  bookstalls  Quai  Voltaire. 
'(God  of  battles  I)     Char-a-banc  to  Versailles  (where  I 
did  at  last  see  the  pictures),  Fontainbleau,  Malmaison, 
or  St  Cloud,  with  an  occasional  boat  on  the  Seine. 

Dinner  (2  f.  75  c),  Palais  Royale  or  Red  AVindmill, 
a  cup  of  coffee  on  the  boulcA'ard.  Cafe  chantant  in 
the  Champs  Elys^e,  or,  joy  of  joys  !  the  play  !  without 
being  compelled  to  rush  home  and  dress  up  like  a 
waiter  with  a  white  choker  ! 


you 


!     If 


one 


There's  an   ideal    programme   for 
had  only  had  a  chum  at  that  time ! 

VViiat  were  you  about  that  you  were  not  born 
a  score  of  years  earlier.  What  splendid  times  we 
might  have  had  together. 

iVt  the  end  of  these  delightful  outings  (always 
regulated  by  the  state  of  the  exchequer  or  the  con- 
dition of  the  Cliannel),  back  to  town,  to  Ipsden,  and 
even  to  Oxford,  which,  beautiful  as  it  was,  had  almost 
become  hateful,  thanks  to  the  malignant  hostility  of 
my  rivals. 

I  was  always  sure  of  a  hearty  wx^lcome  at  Ipsden. 
Besides,  there  was  cricket,  boating,  fishing,  and 
ihooting  in  season.  But  youth ! — "  beautiful,  all 
golden,  gentle  youth," — has  always  held  a  potent 
attraction  for  me,  especially  feminine  youth.  And 
now  that  I  am  getting  old,  I  love  the  young  more 
than  ever !  As  long  as  I'm  a  man  I  hope  I  shall 
ahvays  be  a  boy ! 

There  was  little  youth  at  Ipsden,  so,  despite  the 
dearest  of  mothers,  the  best  of  fathers,  after  a  time  the 
old  INIanor-house  became  dull  and  wearisome.  By 
day  I  missed  the  scrape  of  Henri's  fiddles,  by  night 
the  tuning-up  of  the  orchestra,  the  sight  of  the  gi*een 
curtain,  the  smell  of  orange-peel,  the  murmur  of  the 
expectant  pit,  the  rumbling  of  the  gods,  the  Avomen 
in  the  boxes  with  their  bright  eyes,  their  graciously- 
displayed  charms — above  all,  the  play !  \Vhen  the 
fit  came  upon  me  I  used  to  send  a  line  to  my  gyp 
at  Oxford,  arrange  over-night  with  John  Thomas  the 
groom,  up  w^ith  the  lark  in  the  morning,  pack  my 
portmanteau,  leave  a  hasty  note  with  my  adieux,  get 

72 


HAPPY  HUNTING-GROUND  OF  BOHEMIA 

outside  a  horse,  gallop  over  to  Oxford,  and  drop  into 
my  rooms  for  breakfast  at  nine  o'clock. 

It  was  a  sense  of  duty  alone  which  took  me  to 
the  'Varsity,  but  a  little  of  the  senior  common  room 
went  a  long  way  with  me. 

I  always  felt  as  if  my  illustrious  (and  imbecile) 
colleagues  preferred  my  room  to  my  company ;  so, 
after  a  week  or  so,  maybe  a  month,  back  I  went 
to  my  humble  lodgings  in  the  little  village — back 
to  my  birds,  my  squirrels,  my  fiddles — my  little 
Henri — my  savoury  messes  in  Soho  —  my  happy 
hunting-ground  in  Bohemia — a  Bohemia  of  clean 
linen  and  eau  sucre. 

True,  I  knew  but  few  real  Bohemians.  Indeed, 
at  that  period  an  insuperable  barrier  arose  'twixt 
those  gentlemen  and  yours  truly  —  the  barrier  of 
clean  linen,  to  which,  candour  constrains  me  to  say, 
they  were  somewhat  averse  —  while,  au  conti^aire, 
I  always  had  a  prejudice  in  favour  of  clean  shirts — 
and  plenty  of  'em. 

I  was  now  thirty-six  years  of  age,  and  had  done 
nothing— nothing  but  learn  to  play  the  fiddle  and 
to  dance  a  hornpipe. 

The  thought  began  to  haunt  me.  I  used  to  lie 
awake  o'  nights  and  fancy  myself  dead  and  buried 
(strange  idea  that  of  the  dual  existence !),  I  saw 
myself  lying  in  my  coffin — saw  myself  buried  at 
Ipsden — saw  my  tombstone — read  the  inscription  : 

Hie  Jacet 

CHARLES  READE 
D.C.L.  Etc.,  Oxon. 

Born  8th  June  1814 

Departed  30th  June  1848 

He  played  on  the  fiddle  like  an  angel. 
And  danced  a  hornpipe  like  T.  P.  Cooke. 

And  of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  ! 

I  began  to  take  the  matter  to  heart. 
For  sixteen  years  I  had  been  fooling  and  fiddling. 

73 


J 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

It  was  quite  certain  I  should  never  be  a  Paganini  or 
even  an  Alfred  Mellon,  yet  must  I  be  condemned 
for  ever  "  to  rub  the  hair  of  the  horse  against  the 
bowels  of  the  cat  ?  "     God  forbid  1 

No,  a  time  would  come  1 

Yes,  the  time  should  come — when  the  pit  would 
rise  at  me ;  when 

Enter  Henri — among  my  plays  and  fiddles,  my 
birds,  my  squirrels  and  castles  in  the  air — at  Castle 
Street,  Leicester  Square ! 

He  was  all  ali\'e— had  just  heard  of  a  discovery 
— which  in  one  gi'and  coup  would  retrieve  past  losses 
and  make  our  fortunes  1  'Twas  in  Paris  the  treasure 
had  been  found  ! 

The  prospect  was  alluring — but  how  to  raise  the 
wind,  that  was  the  question  i 

I  was  cleaned  out,  and  my  cheque  from  the 
bursar  was  not  due  for  ten  days !  We  must 
temporise — negotiate,  and  gain  time. 

We  did  so — cheque  came  duly  to  hand.  Next 
day  we  started  for  Paris — got  there  in  safety  this 
time,  without  let  or  hindrance  from  the  bold  Sloman. 

M.  Bertin,  our  correspondent,  met  us  on  our 
arrival  took  us  to  see  the  treasure-trove — a  most 
valuable  find.  About  thirty  fiddles  in  all,  begrimed 
with  the  dust  and  dirt  of  ages ;  some  good,  some 
bad,  some  indifferent,  some  of  priceless  value.  So 
Henri  said. 

We  made  a  good  bargain ;  secured  our  stuff  for 
an  old  song.  Dined  and  wined  our  new  acquaintance, 
and  woimd  up  at  the  Porte  St  Martin,  where  we  saw 
a  wild,  mad  melodrame  which  struck  me. 

Henri  offered  to  call  and  get  me  a  copy  at  Levy's 
in  the  morning,  before  meeting  me  at  the  station 
at  two  o'clock  to  catch  the  mail  for  Boulogne. 

The  morning  came,  so  did  two  o'clock,  but  no 
Henri.  Not  seeing  him,  I  strolled  down  towards 
Levy's  to  get  the  book  of  last  night's  play,  when  lo  I 
as  if  by  magic,  the  Revolution  of  '48  had  leaped  into 
life,  and,  instead  of  Henri,  there  came  Hell !  Yes, 
Hell !    which    burst   forth   from    the    centre   like   a 

74 


THE    REVOLUTION    OF    -FORTY-EIGHT" 

volcano,   vomiting  forth    barricades,  fire   and   liame, 
shot  and  shell,  death  and  universal  destruction. 

All  Paris  had  gone  stark  raving  mad,  with  drink 
and  devilry,  lust  and  murder,  rapine  and  spoliation  ; 
and  here  was  I,  an  innocent,  law-abiding  Englishman, 
pitchforked — head-foremost — into  the  very  thick  of  it. 

The  Citizen  King  knew  his  countrymen — he'd 
been  in  that  line  of  business  once  before — didn't  like 
it — didn't  want  to  follow  his  uncle  and  aunt,  his 
father  and  other  relations  to  the  Place  de  Greve. 

No  longer  Citizen  King,  plain  "  INlr  Smith " 
made  a  bolt  of  it,  got  safely  to  Twickenham,  while 
I  was  stuck  fast  as  a  rat  in  a  trap  in  the  gay  city. 
Gay !  It  was  gay,  with  a  vengeance ! 

I  heard  the  yells  of  the  murderers,  the  shrieks  of 
their  victims,  the  trumpet-calls,  the  rappel  of  the 
drum,  the  rattle  of  musketry,  the  roar  of  artillery  1  ^ 

(I've  been  deaf  ever  since.)  .  '*  '' 

Bobbing,  to  avoid  a  fusilade  of  armed  men  who 
were  potting  everyone  they  came  across  in  the  Rue 
Rivoli,  I  turned  into  the  Rue  St  Ilonore.  As  I  did 
so,  I  came  full  butt  against  Henri,  at  the  head  of  a 
gang  of  raganniffins  armed  with  guns  or  pistols, 
knives  or  bludgeons,  or  anything  they  could  catch 
hold  of. 

The  little  tiger  had  donned  a  blouse  and  a  red 
cap.  His  eyes  flamed  like  burning  coals  ;  evidently 
he  had  caught  the  blood  fever  too. 

"  Ha,  la  bonne  heure ! "  he  shouted,  with  a  roar 
of  laughter.  "  Regardez !  I'm  my  own  postman. 
Here's  your  precious  play  1 "  and  he  thrust  it  into 
my  hand.  "  By-bye  !  Stick  to  the  fiddles  ;  they're  a 
fortune.  Get  back  to  Leicester  Square  as  quickly  as 
you  can.  For  me,  I've  waited  for  this  for  years — 
years.  Thank  God,  I  shall  be  in  at  the  death. 
Adieu ! "  and  he  wrung  my  hand.  '*  En  avant, 
camarades  !     En  avant !  " 

Then,  rushing  to  the  barricade  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  he  leaped  to  the  summit,  waving  his  cap  and 
shouting  "  ^^ive  la  Liberte  !  vive  la  Republique  !  " 

The   last  word   had   scarcely  left  his   lips   when 

75 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

bang  I  crash  went  a  bullet  through  his  head ;  and 
there  was  an  end  of  Henri ! 

The  barricade  belched  forth  fire  ;  houses  on  either 
side  burst  into  flame ;  I  turned  away  and  bolted 
in  the  opposite  direction,  only  to  find  myself 
engulfed  in  a  great  shrieking,  shouting  horde  of 
homicidal  maniacs,  who  bore  me  with  them  into 
the  Legislative  Assembly,  where  Lamartine,  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  and  her  little  boy  were  evidently 
appealing  to  the  collective  wisdom  of  the  nation. 

What  they  said  I  could  not  distinguish,  for  the 
place  was  like  a  howling  den  of  wild  beasts. 

Attracted,  evidently,  by  peals  of  musketry,  one 
section  of  the  mob  biu*st  fortli  from  tlie  chamber, 
still  dragging  me  with  them,  into  an  adjacent  square, 
where  a  detachment  of  National  Guards  had  been 
overpowered.  How  many  were  massacred  I  can't 
even  guess,  but  I  can  answer  for  it  that  I  saw — yes  ; 
saw  with  these  eyes,  three  poor  fellows  burnt  to 
death ! 

A  fourth  was  about  to  be  sacrificed,  when  a  huge 
sans  -  culotte  threw  a  ragged  blouse  over  him, 
exclaiming,  "  Hold,  hold,  citizens  !  Lo  !  he  is  one  of 
us — a  brother  !  " 

Then  they  sprang  upon  the  guard,  as  if  about  to 
tear  him  limb  from  limb,  instead  of  which  they 
beslobbered  and  hugged  him,  bore  him  aloft  on  their 
shoulders,  dancing  a  devil's  dance  to  the  diabolical 
music  of  the  carmagnole  while  the  other  poor 
wretches  were  being  roasted  alive. 

Enraged  at  my  impotence  to  save  or  succour,  I 
struggled  out,  staggered  home,  and  besought  my 
good  landlord  to  find  some  means  to  enable  me  to 
get  to  Calais. 

At  nightfall  he  brought  a  friendly  cocher  and 
shoved  me  into  the  bottom  of  a  huge  fiacre,  covered 
and  half  smothered  me  with  straw,  came  with  me 
himself,  and  smuggled  me  out  beyond  the  barrier. 

The  rest  was  easy,  and  deuced  glad  I  was,  I  can 
tell  you,  to  see  the  white  cliffs  of  Old  England  once 
more. 

76 


READE   &   CO.   DISSOLVE   PARTNERSHIP 

''And  the  fiddles?'' 

"  Oh,  I  wrote  and  wrote,  and  got  no  answer.  A 
few  months  later  I  went  over,  found  the  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Roche  burnt  down,  and  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that  the  fiddles  had  been  destroyed 
with  the  house." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  retired  from  the  business  ?  " 

"  Well,  really  the  business  retired  from  me.  The 
firm  of  Reade,  Henri,  and  Co.  dissolved  partnership 
at  the  Barricade  on  the  Rue  St  Honore." 

Poor  little  Henri  I  Though  a  rabid  Revolutionist, 
he  was  a  rattling  good  fiddler  ! 

As  soon  as  I  got  back  to  town,  I  found  a  letter 
from  the  mater  desiring  my  immediate  presence  at 
Ipsden. 

,Xo....ibiear.  was  to  obey.   _ 

When  I  got  to  the  Manor-house,  Madame  M6re 
was  sad  and  subdued.     No  wonder. 

"  Charles,"  said  she,  "  your  father  is  breaking  fast " 
— has  been  doing  so  for  months  past.  I  didn't  like  to 
tell  you,  because  I  thought  he  would  get  better,  but 
I've  lost  all  hope  of  that  now.  His  health  is  gone, 
and  he  is  subject  to  delusions. 

He  thinks  we  are  ruined,  and  expects  we  shall 
be  turned  out  of  house  and  home. 

'Tis  in  vain  for  me  to  assure  him  that  there  is  no 
cause  for  anxiety.  He  says  he  knows  better.  I've 
proposed  to  send  for  William  or  Compton  or  Julia. 
'  No,  no  ! '  says  he,  '  I  want  Charley,  my  curly-headed 
ploughboy.  Send  for  him  at  once,  and  tell  him  to 
bring  his  fiddle.' 

"His  fiddle!" 

"  Hush,  hush !  Humour  him,  humour  him. 
Though  he  seemed  stern  and  hard,  you  were  always 
his  favourite.  You  came  late,  dear,  and  you  came 
last,  and  he  loves  you." 

Then  she  led  me  to  him  in  the  garden,  where 
we  found  him  walking,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
sister  Elinor. 

His  hair  had  grown  quite  white,  and  was  smooth 
as  spun  silk,  his  eyes  had  a  fixed  and  vacant  look, 

77 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

but   he   pricked   up   his   ears    at   the  sound   of  our 
footsteps. 

"  It's  my  boy  !  "  he  said,  "  my  curly  -  headed 
ploughboy  come  back  to  his  old  father ! "  Then  he 
fell  on  my  neck  and  wept,  and  the  mater,  "  albeit 
unused  to  the  melting  mood,"  she  wept  too. 

As  for  me,  I  had  never  seen  either  father  or 
mother  thus  before,  and  it  knocked  me  over 
altogether. 

"  The  fiddle,  Charley  ?  Where's  the  fiddle  ? "  he 
inquired. 

"  It  will  be  here  to-morrow,  sir." 

"  Sir  I  Sir  ?  Call  me  Father  1  Father  !  do  you 
hear,  sirV 

"Yes,  Father!" 

"  That's  right  1  Now,  dinner,  jNlaria — dinner,  and 
then  we'll  talk  about  old  times. 

You  remember  when  you  were  going  to  Bath 
for  the  waters,  and  we  breeched  him,  the  sturdy 
little  beggar,  and  I  drove  him  and  Compton  to  Read- 
ing,  and Who's  that?     Well,  the  bailiffs  won't 

come — they  won't  dare  to  come  now,  now  that  you 
are  here,  my  son,  my  son." 

The  fiddle  came,  and  I  played  and  sang  to  him  day 
by  day,  night  after  night,  till  it  soothed  him  to  sleep. 

At  first  it  afforded  him  pleasure,  after  a  time  he 
became  impatient  and  querulous.  "  Put  it  away  ! " 
he  said,  "  put  it  away  !  " 

In  a  weak  moment  I  suggested  a  game  at 
cribbage.  Cards  were  taboo  at  Ipsden ;  Mother 
had  seen  men  of  eminence  wrecked  and  ruined 
by  "the  devil's  books,"  and  she  loathed  them. 
She  objected,  I  persisted  and  persuaded,  and  at 
length  prevailed.  From  that  moment  I  knew  no 
peace. 

It  was  cards,  cards,  ever  more  cards — morning, 
noon,  and  night,  for  months  and  months ! 

Though  She  bore  it  like  a  Spartan,  it  was  a 
terrible  affliction  for  her  to  hear  the 

"  big  manly  voice 
Turning  again  to  childish  treble/' 

78 


THE   SQUIRE'S   LAST   SLEEP 

and  to  feel  that 

"  second  childishness  and  mere  obUvion  " 

were  slowly  but  surely  creeping  on. 

(Can  the  Bard  have  been  prophetic?  Must  we 
all  come  to  this,  if  we  live  long  enough  ? 

Then  surely  He  himself,  Mozart,  Byron,  Keats, 
and  Shelley  were  happy  in  their  exits. 

As  a  child,  when  1  read  of  the  closing  scenes  of 
poor  old  George  HI.,  Swift,  and  Scott,  they  filled 
me  with  a  shuddering  terror ;  and  even  now,  the 
pathetic  horror  of  that  last  "  Burke  Sir  Walter  I " 
stabs  me  like  a  blow  from  a  knife.) 

Thank  God  !  She  was  spared  all  but  the  pain  of 
seeing  the  dear  old  dad  gradually  and  painlessly  fade 
away,  until  the  end  came,  and  he  fell  asleep  with  her 
hand  clasped  in  his,  and  a  smile  upon  his  lips." 


79 


CHAPTER  VI 

VICE-PRESIDENT  OF  MAGDALEN 

Tempering  the  Wind  to  the  Shorn  Lamb — Term  of  Office — Sweets 
and  Bitters  —  Nominates  his  Nephew  for  Demyship  —  A 
Missive  from  Melancholy  James  —  Introduction  to  Mrs 
Stirling,  Tom  Taylor,  and  the  unfortunate  "  Christie  John- 
stone"— Out  of  Evil  Cometh  Good — A  little  Dinner-party  at 
Richmond — Installation  as  Vice-Chancellor  of  Maudlen — The 
Theatre  opened  at  last — Production  of  "The  Ladies'  Battle" 
at  the  Olympic  —  Quasi  Success  —  Origin  of  "  Masks  and 
Faces"  —  In  Collaboration  with  Tom  Taylor — Developments 
—  Disappointments — Alterations  and  Rupture  —  "Masks  and 
Faces "  accepted  at  the  Haymarket — -Health  breaks  down — 
Tries  the  Hydro,  at  Malvern — Gully  the  Unapproachable  and 
Omnipotent — Production  of  "Masks  and  Faces"  at  the  Hay- 
market — Land  at  last 

"Although  IMother  endeavoured  to  bear  her  be- 
reavement with  fortitude,  the  associations  of  half-a- 
century,  during  which  they  had  never  been  parted, 
made  the  blow  almost  beyond  endurance. 

"  You  are  all  very  good,"  she  said,  '*  but  you 
are  not  him  I " 

By  right  of  succession,  Will  was  now  lord  of 
Ipsden  Manor,  but  the  dear  old  chap  wouldn't  hear 
of  the  Mater  leaving  the  home  over  which  she  had 
ruled  so  wisely  and  so  long. 

All  her  surviving  children  were  now  grown  men 
and  women  —  all,  indeed,  except  my  sister  Elinor 
and  myself  were  fathers  and  mothers  of  men  and 
women,  some  of  whom  had  grown  up  in  India, 
most  of  them  at  a  distance.  Sister  and  I  were  the 
only  immediate  connecting  links  with  the  past,  and 
Nelly  devoted  her  life  to   her  mother,  while  1  did 

80 


-  MELANCHOLY  JAMES  " 

what   little    I    could    to    alleviate    sufferings    which 
time  alone  could  heal. 

To  this  end  I  stayed  at  Ipsden  for  some  months,   *~     \i  ^  4rrv\j 
assiduously    devoting    myself   to    her,    and    to    my        ^^f 
studies.  ^^-^<^-./^. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  give  up  all  hope  of  ever 
passing  the  stage-door,  at  or  about  the  end  of 
August  1850,  there  came  a  letter  from  Melancholy 
James. 

"  Gentle  shepherd,"  wrote  the  sad  one,  "  cheer  up 
for  Chatham  !  The  Gorgyus  Stirling  wants  to  hear 
about  '  Christie.'     Come  up  at  once,  and  bring  JNIS." 

INIy  stipend  was  due,  and  I  had  to  go  to  Oxford 
to  draw  it !  From  thence  it  would  be  easy  to 
rim  up  to  town ;  so  I  wrote  James,  inviting  him 
to  an  early  dinner  next  day  at  the  Casque  d'Or. 

He  was  full  of  the  subject.  He  had  seen  JNlrs 
Stirling  and  "  rubbed  '  Christie '  into  her,"  and  she 
had  consented  to  see  the  author  and  hear  the  play. 

He  had  a  box  for  the  Olympic,  where  they  were 
doing  a  little  play  called  "  Time  tries  All,"  taken 
from  a  story  in  the  Fauiily  Herald,  by  a  Mr 
Courtenay,  who  had  succeeded  Douglas  Jerrold  as 
the  stock  playwright  of  the  Surrey. 

Of  course  you  know  the  minor  theatres  of  that 
period,  like  the  players  in  "  Gil  Bias  " — indeed,  like 
the  Italians  of  to-day — had  their  own  "poet,"  per- 
manently retained  on  the  establishment  at  a  weekly 
salary  not  of  a  munificent  character. 

'*  Time  tries  All "  was  an  interesting  trifle,  very 
well  acted.  INlrs  Stirling  was  the  heroine  Laura 
Leeson,  while  "TTeigh  Murray  was  the  hero  (one 
Matthew  Bates),  and  Sam  Cowell  (a  famous  droll 
of  the  period)  was  a  low  comedy  cockney,  pretend- 
ing to  be  a  Parisian. 

When  the  play  was  over  James  escorted  me 
behind  the  scenes  and  across  the  stage  to  Mrs 
Stirling's  dressing-room. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  trod  the  stage, 
and  what  a  thrill  it  sent  through  me. 

The  stage-manager  was  giving  directions — car- 
F  81 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

penters  moving  scenery — property  men  clearing  away 
properties — gasmen  stowing  away  lengths  of  lights. 

As  I  gazed  upon  this  busy  beehive  my  heart 
swelled  within  me.  I  looked  round  in  triumph,  and 
was  half  disposed  to  cry  aloud,  "  Behold  your  future 
lord  and  master  !  " 

I  was,  however,  brought  to  earth  by  James. 

"  Now,  laddie,  here  you  are.     Buck  up  !  " 

The  next  moment  I  was  in  the  sanctum 
sanctorum. 

You  who  have  only  seen  Fanny  Stirling  in  her 
declining  years  can  form  no  idea  of  what  she  was 
like  when  she  first  dawned  on  me  in  the  full  rich 
glow  of  ripe  womanhood. 

Above  the  middle  height,  an  abimdance  of  brown 
waving  hair,  a  somewhat  pronounced  nose,  sparkling 
eyes,  luscious  rosy  lips,  a  bewitching  smile,  and — a 
mouthful  of  teeth  like  a  young  horse. 

The  riding-habit  which  she  wore  fitted  like  her 
skin,  restraining  with  difficulty  her  "breast's  superb 
abundance." 

She  was  the  beau-ideal  of  a  Rubens  woman 
before  she  begins  to  run  to  pod.  There !  you  have 
her  to  a  hair ! 

Evidently  she  and  James  were  hons  camarades^ 
for  she  opened  fire  sans  cerevionie. 

"  Well,  Jimmy,"  said  she,  beaming,  "  so  this  is 
your  friend  from  Oxford  ? " 

"  '3I'yas,  queen  of  my  soul ;  the  very  identical 
flute  !  "  responded  James.  "  This  blessed  play  of  his 
is  O.K.,  and  has  a  rippin'  part  for  you.  He's  come 
all  the  way  to  town  to  read  it  you.  When  is  it 
to  be?" 

"To  -  morrow  —  at  eleven  —  second  floor  —  27 
Arundel  Street.  Excuse  me.  Glad  to  form  your 
acquaintance,  sir.     Emily,  the  door." 

Then  she  bowed  us  out  like  an  empress  ;  and 
it  had  all  been  done  without  my  getting  in  a  word 
edgeways. 

James  came  to  breakfast  next  morning,  nine 
o'clock,    after   which   he  walked   round   to   Arundel 

82 


LA   BELLE   AND   BUXOM   FANNY 

Street  with  me.  When  we  got  to  the  door  he  said, 
"  Here  you  are,  gentle  shepherd — good-bye,  and  good 
hick." 

"  Ain't  you  coining  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,  laddie.  I've  stood  it  once — 
and  once  is  a  dose  for  yours  truly.  So-long.  Ta-ta." 
And  he  was  off  before  I  could  reply. 

My  hostess  stood  the  daylight  even  better  than 
she  stood  the  footlights,  and  looked  charming 
whether  by  night  or  day.  She  gave  me  a  very 
cordial  welcome,  and  invited  me  to  let  fly  at 
"  Christie  "  at  once. 

Thus  encouraged,  I  read  the  play  with  ardour — 
and  actually  impressed  her. 

She  was  most  hospitable,  invited  me  to 
lunch,  and  gave  me  a  very  good  one  —  a  salmon 
cutlet  with  cucumber,  lamb  chops  and  green  peas, 
an  omelette  with  apricot  jam  (you  know  my  sweet 
tooth),  and  a  bottle  of  sparkling  Moselle. 

She  seemed  to  have  acquired  the  knack  of 
reaching  a  man's  heart  througli  his  stomach.  Any- 
how, she  reached  mine,  and  we  were  friends  and 
comrades  before  I  left  the  house. 

The  play,  she  said,  had  capital  points,  a  strong 
love  interest ;  the  comedy  was  comic,  the  scenic 
effect  realistic  and  striking,  the  entire  subject  a 
novelty,  but  (here  I  trembled)  it  required  re- 
vision—  concentration.  With  my  permission,  she 
would  submit  it  to  her  friend  Mr  Tom  Taylor, 
the  distinguished  dramatist,  and,  in  the  event  of 
his  approval,  would  I  object  to  his  collaboration  ? 

I  jumped  at  the  idea,  left  her  the  JNIS.,  and 
went  away  rejoicing  in  the  assurance  that  she 
would  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  consulting 
JNIr  Taylor,  and  acquaint  me  with  the  result. 

A  week  elapsed — another — no  news  !  Then  1 
resolved  to  bell  the  cat.  So  I  called  at  Arundel 
Street — more  gracious  reception  than  ever—  lunch 
more  delicious  than  ever — but  she  had  been  un- 
able to  get  at  Taylor,  who  had  gone  down  to 
Sunderland  to  visit  his  people. 

83 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Another  week — still  no  news.  Called  again — in- 
vited my  lady  to  Richmond — lunched  at  the  Star 
and  Garter.  A  delightful  day — too  delightful — 
began  too  late  and  ended  too  soon. 

Letter  next  morning  from  the  Mater,  wanting 
me  home.  AVent  at  once,  leaving  my  card  of  adieux 
at  Arundel  Street. 

When  I  got  back  to  Ipsden  1  found  mother  had 
returned  to  something  like  herself  Dr  MacBride 
had  been  to  see  her,  had  called  a  second  time, 
and  insisted  on  driving  her  and  Elinor  over  to 
Oxford,  where  Mrs  MacBride  put  them  up  for  the 
night. 

Next  morning  the  gentle  Mac  (who  had  always 
been  the  kindest  of  friends  to  me)  took  her  to  see 
Routh.  Then  the  two  dear  old  cronies  opened  fire 
on  her ;  intimated  that  next  year  the  option  of 
A^ice-Chancellorship  of  Maudlen  came  to  me  by 
rotation. 

It  was  due  to  my  father's  memory — due  to  her 
— to  myself,  that  I  should  accept  the  honour  thus 
thrust  upon  me.  There  must  be  no  nonsense ;  I 
must,  willy-nilly,  take  it. 

**  Some  men  are  born  great,  some  achieve  great- 
ness, and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them." 

It  was  hterally  thrust  on  me. 

The  position  involved  another  twelve  months' 
residence — another  twelve  months'  daily,  hourly 
contact  with  those  who  had  tried  to  rob  me  of 
my  fellowship,  and  to  make  Oxford  too  hot 
to  hold  me. 

"  Let  the  wretches  see,"  said  mother,  "  that  they 
cannot  drive  you  out ;  that  you  are  one  too  many 
for  them. 

Besides,  there's  that  Demyship.  Julia's  son, 
Allen  Gardner,  is  eligible.  He's  a  delightful  boy, 
and  will  do  you  credit ;  and  we  must  keep  that 
place  in  the  family.  Then,  my  boy,  there  is  that 
additional  hundred  pounds,  your  rooms  and  your 
living,  which  will  cost  you  nothing.  Whenever 
you   want  an   outing  I   will  send  the  carriage   and 

84 


INSTALLED   AS   VICE-CHANCELLOR 

pair,  and  the  drive  home  will  do  you  good.  Then 
William  has  promised  to  come  over  and  stay  with 
you  every  now  and  then." 

Mother  had  her  own  way  (she  always  did),  and 
it  was  decided  I  should  become  Vice-Chancellor 
of  Maudlen  for  1851. 

The  position  was  one  of  distinction  and  dignity, 
and  would  liave  satisfied  most  reasonable  men,  but 
my  mind  was  set  on  "  Christie  Johnstone  "  and  her 
beautiful  representative. 

A  short  time  prior  to  my  installation  there  came 
a  characteristic  letter  from  Taylor,  saying  that  he 
had  read  "  Christie  "  with  great  interest ;  tliat  it  was 
full  of  strength,  but  (confound  his  buts !)  unfitted 
for  the  stage.  It  would,  however,  make  a  splendid 
novel,  and  that  I  had  better  make  a  novel  of  it. 

By  the  same  post  came  a  letter  from  Mrs 
Stirling,  returning  the  MS.,  expressing  her  regret 
and  her  disappointment,  hoping  tliat  we  might  do 
something  hereafter,  that  she  would  always  be  glad 
to  see  me,  etc. 

On  2nd  February  18.51,  I  was  installed  as  Vice- 
Chancellor.  For  a  month — nay,  more — for  six  whole 
weeks  I  sedulously  devoted  myself  to  my  duties, 
that  is  to  say,  to  quoits  and  skittles,  archery,  shooting 
and  fishing  and  boathig  with  the  youngsters,  beastly 
stodgy  dinners  with  the  fellas  and  the  master  in 
the  commons  room,  when  lo  I  a  letter  from  Bertin, 
from  whom  I  had  bought  that  batch  of  fiddles  in  '48, 
informing  me  they  had  turned  up  safe  and  sound, 
stowed  away  in  a  cellar  at  the  goods'  station,  and 
would  be  delivered  to  me  upon  personal  application. 

Off  I  went  to  Dover  by  first  train.  Fortunately 
the  Channel  was  smootli  as  a  mill-pond,  and  I  crossed 
without  turning  a  hair.  Bertin  met  me  on  my 
arrival  in  Paris,  took  me  to  the  station,  introduced 
me  to  the  goods'-manager,  who  transferred  my  be- 
loved Cremonas  and  Stradivariuses  to  me  at  once. 
And,  by  the  way,  some  of  them  turned  out  to  be 
of  considerable  value ;  in  fact,  I  sold  one  for  twice 
as  much  as  I  gave  for  the  whole  boiling  I 

85 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Decidedly  I  was  in  luck's  way,  for  that  very 
night  (March  17th)  was  the  pi'cmicre  of  a  new 
comedy  by  Scribe  and  Legouve,  entitled  "  Bataille 
des  Dames." 

After  an  early  dinner  at  the  Fr^res  Pro\'en(^aux 
with  Bertin  and  the  goods'-manager,  off  we  went 
to  the  Fran^ais. 

1  was  delighted  with  the  play.  Firstly,  because 
of  its  merits  ;  secondly,  because  there  was  a  splendid 
part,  the  Countess  d'^Vutreval,  for  INIrs  Stirling. 

No  British  brigands  were  present,  so  it  occurred 
to  me  as  an  inspiration  to  play  the  bandit  myself. 
Obtaining  a  copy  of  tlie  play,  I  made  my  way 
back  with  my  booty,  and  immediately  set  to  work 
on  the  adaptation.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  never 
thought  of  paying  Scribe  or  Legouve,  or  even  ask- 
ing their  permission  to  do  the  piece.  It  was  so 
customary  then  to  steal  from  our  neigh})ours  that 
all  playwrights  were  thieves,  and  I  merely  Followed 
the  fashion. 

It  was  only  when  I  became  an  author  myself 
that  the  scales  fell  from  my  eyes,  the  moral  sense 
awoke,  and  I  saw  the  abominable  dishonesty  of  the 
thing.     But  that  was  not  yet. 

To  translate  is  easy  enough,  with  the  aid  of  a 
dictionary — I  believe  many  so-called  playwrights  of 
that  period  kept  a  ghost,  who  translated  a  piece, 
literally  for  a  fiver ; — but  to  adapt  is  a  very  different 
thing,  as  I  speedily  discovered. 

It  was  a  labour  of  love,  however,  and  in  about  a 
week  the  job  was  done. 

As  soon  as  I  could  get  a  fair  copy  made,  I  wired 
to  La  Belle  Stirling — I  had  a  brand-new  play  from 
Paris,  with  a  magnificent  part  for  her,  and  I  was 
coming  up  to  read  it  to  her. 

I  came,  I  read.  She  listened  earnestly  —  was 
struck  with  it — again  suggested  collaboration  with 
Taylor.  "  No,"  said  I,  " '  too  many  cooks  spoil  the 
broth.'  Scribe  and  Legouve  are  good  enough  for 
me.     Taylor  and  I  can  collaborate  by-and-by." 

She  saw  the  reason  of  this,  and  pledged  herself 

86 


AT   THE   STAR   AND   GARTER 

to  do  the  best  she  could  with  the  cock  sahnon,  old 
Farren.     The  difficulty  was  there  was  no  part  for  him. 

She  suggested  the  desirability  of  Taylor  and  I 
becoming  acquainted.  I  replied  by  suggesting  a 
httle  dinner  for  the  following  Sunday  at  the  Star 
and  Garter.  She  was  to  appear  the  hostess,  which 
would  enable  her  to  invite  not  only  Taylor,  but 
Louisa  Howard  (a  very  charming  young  actress), 
the  two  young  Farrens,  and  Leigh  Murray,  for  1 
had  all  of  them  in  my  mind  for  my  play :  Louisa 
Howard  for  laconic,  Henry  Farren  for  Montrichard, 
young  William  for  Henry,  and  Leigh  Murray  for 
De  Grignon. 

My  fair  friend  was  'cute  as  a  bag  of  monkeys. 

"  Not  a  word  of  this  play  to  anyone  at  present. 
Leave  me  to  pull  the  strings  afterwards,"  said 
she. 

Well,  our  little  plot  succeeded,  and  a  very  pleasant 
affair  it  was,  the  only  drawback  being  the  absence 
of  young  W^illiam,  who  was  gallervanting  elsewhere, 
and  didn't  turn  up. 

AVe  were  all  favourably  impressed  with  eacli 
other — Taylor  and  I  especially — and  it  was  there 
and  then  arranged  tliat  he  should  come  down  to 
Oxford  and  stay  a  day  or  two  with  me  to  discuss 
a  project  for  collaborating  in  various  subjects. 

When  we  parted  that  night  the  fair  but  foxy 
Fanny  whispered,  "  Louisa  thinks  you  charming. 
But  don't  make  yourself  too  agreeable  in  that 
quarter ;  Harry  mayn't  like  it.  And  both  he  and 
Murray  are  most  favourably  impressed.  As  for  the 
play,  wait  and  you'll  see." 

When  I  returned  to  Oxford,  Taylor  came,  accord- 
ing to  promise,  and  stayed  with  me  once  or  twice 
from  Satiu'day  to  INIonday,  while  I  inundated  him 
with  my  crude  theories  about  art. 

My  views  were  ideal ;  his  practical.  He  had 
written  several  plays  with  more  or  less  success,  and 
was  a  persona  ^rata  with  managers.  I  was  not, 
but  I  suggested  an  idea  which  had  been  seething 
in   my    mind   from   the   first   moment   that    I    met 

87 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Mrs  Stirling — Peg  AVoffington  as  the  heroine  of  a 
play.  I  had  fallen  head-over-ears  in  love  with  my 
darling  Peggy,  and  a  little  with  the  buxom  Fanny. 
I  thought  them  made  for  each  other,  as  indeed 
they  were. 

I  had  written  a  fragment  of  the  play,  a  scene 
or  two,  and  gave  it  to  Taylor  to  take  to  town. 

He  kept  it  ever  so  long,  and  sent  it  back  with 
some  notes.  Then  I  sent  it  back  to  him  ;  and  so 
it  went  to  and  fro,  but  didn't  "get  any  forrader." 

Meanwhile  he  did  me  a  good  turn — got  me  made 
a  member  of  the  Garrick  CIul?,  a  genial,  but  some- 
what exclusive  institution. 

An  anomalous  one,  too — originally  founded,  as 
you  know,  for  tlie  use  of  actors — it  has  steadily 
drifted  away  from  its  original  purpose ;  and  in  my 
time  it  has  never  exceeded  an  a\'erage  of  a  dozen 
actors  and  half-a-dozen  authors,  the  residuum  being 
old  fogies,  dilapidated  dandies,  and  men  about  town. 
So  exclusive  has  it  become,  that  only  the  other  day 
three  of  our  most  distinguished  actors  were  "  pilled." 

It  is,  however,  centrally  situated,  and  I  found  it 
very  convenient,  especially  during  my  enforced  resid- 
ence at  Oxford. 

My  position  as  A^ice  -  Chancellor  rendered  it 
difficult  to  get  to  town,  except  for  a  few  hours 
now  and  then,  and  that  was  useless.  I  wrote  Mrs 
Stirling,  urging  her  to  put  on  pressure,  and  try  to 
get  my  hapless  play  produced  before  Christmas. 

She  did  not  answer  my  letter.  I  wrote  again. 
She  replied  she  had  tried  her  hardest,  to  no  avail. 

T  was  incredulous,  and  wrote  a  reproachful  letter. 
Next  night,  to  my  astonishment,  my  lady  came 
down  to  Oxford,  having  got  or  taken  a  week's 
holiday,  with  the  object,  she  said,  rather  scornfully, 
of  seeing  the  institution  which  metamorphosed  men 
into  old  women. 

Of  course  I  had  to  do  the  honours ;  to  visit  lier 
at  the  hotel ;  and  she  returned  the  visit  at  my 
rooms. 

A  highly-popular   actress  at  her   zenith,  stylish. 


MATER  AND  "THE  OTHER  LADY" 

attractive,  aggressive,  dressed  in  the  height  of 
fashion,  her  advent  at  Oxford  fluttered  the  dove- 
cotes of  Phihstia ;  snobbery  was  rampant,  and  Mrs 
Grundy  up  in  arms. 

Some  good-natured  friend  wrote  to  Ipsden 
that  the  A'^ice-Chancellor  of  Magdalen  had  been 
seen  trotting  about  with  a  play-actress,  and  next 
day,  just  as  my  fair  friend  and  I  were  sitting 
down  to  hmch  in  my  rooms,  the  Chatelaine  of 
Ipsden  descended  upon  us.  She  did  not  wait  for 
any  introduction.  It  was  the  first  and  only  time 
I  ever  knew  the  Mater  to  forget  herself 

I  must  do  the  other  lady  the  justice  to  say  she 
did  not — indeed,  she  never  acted  so  well  on  the 
stage  as  she  did  on  that  occasion. 

"  You  are  his  mother,  madam,  and  he  is  my 
friend,"  she  said.  "  Don't  trouble,  sir ;  you  are 
needed  here,  and  I  am  not.     I  can  find  my  way." 

I  drove  home  with  mother  that  night,  and  next 
day  (Sunday)  we  went  to  church  together.  When 
she  said  "  forgive  us  our  trespasses,"  she  clasped 
my  hand.  1  returned  the  clasp,  and  from  that 
time  forth  the  incident  was  closed. 

A  fortnight  later  I  had  a  letter  from  Henry 
Farren,  intimating  that,  if  the  terms  were  eligible, 
my  play  would  be  produced  at  the  Olympic. 
Would  1  kindly  make  a  proposal,  and  also  suggest 
my  views  about  a  title  ? 

When  Mrs  Stirling  left  my  room  upon  that 
memorable  occasion  I  thought  all  was  over  with  my 
poor  play.     Hence  the  news  surprised  me. 

I  was  puzzled  as  to  whether  she  meant  to  act 
the  Countess  or  to  throw  it  up.  Without  her  the 
piece  must  inevitably  be  a  failure,  for  there  was 
absolutely  no  one  who  could  take  her  place. 

Suspense  was  intolerable,  so  I  took  the  first  train 
to  London,  drove  to  Arundel  Street,  and,  walking 
straight  to  her  room,  put  Farren's  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? "  I  inquired. 

"  It  means — what  it  says." 

"  Then  you  know  ?  " 

89 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  Know  ?     Of  course  ;  I  arranged  it  all." 

"  And  you  will  play  the  Countess  ?  " 

"  Who  else,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Who  else 
will  dare  while  I  am  in  the  theatre  ? " 

"  I  am  forgiven,  then  ? " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  She  is  the 
sweetest,  noblest  old  lady  in  the  world.  And  you 
— yes,  you — are  the  only  one  left  her  now ;  and 
she  wants  to  keep  you  to  herself." 

"  We  are  friends,  then  ?  " 

"  There's  my  hand !  \A^e  mean  to  make  the 
play  a  great  success.  It  is  cast  already  as  you 
suggested.  Cio  and  see  Harry.  Don't  open  your 
mouth  too  widely  about  terms,  or  the  affair  will 
be  off  altogetliei".     Tliere  ! 

"'  Hy  .love,  you  are  adorable  I  " 

"  That'll  do,  sir,  that'll  do.     Now  oflf  with  you." 

"  The  Ladies'  Battle "  was  produced  May  7th, 
1851. 

Of  course,  1  needn't  tell  you  that  all  the 
Moralities  were  written  by  the  monks,  and  the 
first  Enghsh  play  ("Gammer  Gurton's  Needle")  by 
the  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  and  that  most  of 
the  players  and  playwTights  of  Elizabethan  times 
were  'A'arsity  men,  that  Dr  Hoadley  wrote  "  The 
Suspicious  Husband,"  Young  "The  Revenge,"  Mil- 
man  "  Fazio,"  and  Croly  "  Pride  shall  have  a  Fall  "  ; 
but  I  believe  this  is  the  first  case  on  record  of  a 
Vice- Chancellor  of  the  'Varsity  having  written  and 
produced  a  play  during  his  term  of  office ;  a  circum- 
stance of  which  I  was  not  a  little  proud. 

My  duties  at  Oxford  deterred  me  from  attending 
rehearsals  regularly,  so  the  stage  management  de- 
volved on  Leigh  Murray,  who,  though  too  robust 
and  manly,  distinguished  himself  highly  as  De 
Grignon. 

The  parts  were  all  excellently  acted,  but  INIrs 
Stirling  was  head  and  shoulders  over  everybody. 

The  public  were  appreciative,  but  not  enthusi- 
astic, and  the  critics  (save  the  mark !)  were,  when 
not   pessimistic,  systematically  hostile,  as  they  have 

90 


LADIES'   BATTLE   AT   THE   OLYMPIC 

always  been  to  me ;  so  I  gained  little  kudos  and 
less  coin  by  my  maiden  effort* 

I  had  broken  the  ice,  however,  and  iNIrs  Stirling's 
success  as  the  Countess  encouraged  me  to  peg  away 
at  my  darling  Peggy. 

During  this  time  Taylor  and  I  played  a  perpetual 
game  at  batttledore  and  shuttlecock.  1  wrote  and 
sent  my  MS.  to  him ;  he  cut  and  sent  it  back ; 
and  we  didn't  get  "a  bit  forrader." 

I  nominated  my  nephew  (darling  Julia's  son), 
Allen  Gardner,  for  the  Demyship,  and  he  came  off 
triumphant,  which  was  highly  satisfactory  to  mother, 
to  Julia,  and  to  me. 

Although  my  old  enemies  were  irreconcilable,  the 
youngsters  were  all  disposed  to  regret  the  end  of 
my  term  when  I  returned  to  Ipsden. 

That  bit  of  a  tussle  about  the  \^ice-Chancellorship 
and  Allen's  Demyship  had  stirred  the  Mater  up  and 
done  her  good.  As  for  my  poor  play,  T  never 
referred  to  it.  Perchance  she  never  heard  of  it ; 
at  any  rate,  if  she  did,  she  never  mentioned  it 
to  me. 

AVith    the    exception   of  an    occasional    visit   to 


*  Although  Reade  gave  nothing  for  this  play,  he  got  nothing 
or  next  to  nothing,  for  it ;  and  Tom  Robertson,  destined  later  to 
become  one  of  the  most  eminent  dramatists  of  the  time,  informed 
me,  that  in  his  early,  struggling  days  he  adapted  this  very  play 
for  Lacy  the  publisher  for  the  modest  honorarium  of  five  pounds. 

Other  times,  other  manners  I 

After  an  interval  of  half-a-century,  another  version  of  this  same 
play  ("  There's  Many  a  Slip  ")  has  recently  been  produced  at  the 
Haymarket,  and  I  dare  be  sworn  that  the  adapter  (a  new  and, 
it  must  be  added,  accomplished  recruit  to  the  army  of  letters) 
has  received  more  coin  in  royalties  in  a  month  than  Reade  received 
from  that  theatre  during  the  first  dozen  years  of  his  literary  life. 

Half-a-centiiry  ago  all  authors  were  thieves,  and  I — I  blush  to 
own  it — I  was  as  great  a  thief  as  any  of  them.  I  must,  however, 
plead  in  extenuation  youth  and  ignorance.  I  was  foremost  in 
the  van  with  my  boyish  adaptations  of  "  The  Robbers,"  "  Monte 
Cristo,"  "The  Musketeers,"  "  Belphegor,"  "The  Mother's  Secret," 
"  Three  Red  Men,"  "  Father  Paul,"  "'  Corsican  Brothers,"  "  Faust 
and  Marguerite,"  "  Valjean,"  "  Katherine  Howard,"  etc. 

91 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Oxford,    I    remained    with    her    till    April,   when    1 
made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  spin  in  town. 

After  dinner,  the  night  before  I  went  away,  she 
said,  "  Charles,  I'm  getting  near  the  end  of  my 
journey.  Oh  yes,  I  know  I  am !  There's  some 
money"  (a  handsome  sum  secured  under  her 
marriage  settlement)  "coming  to  you  at  my  death. 
It  will  be  more  useful  to  you  now,  and  I  think 
you'd  better  have  it  at  once.  Of  course,  you'll 
have  to  pay  me  the  interest ;  but  mind,  no  more 
fiddles  or  wild-cat  speculations  ! " 

This  generous  offer  took  my  breath  away,  but 
it  was  a  God-send,  and  I  gratefully  accepted  it. 

When  I  got  to  town  I  was  received  with  open 
arms  at  the  Olympic,  and  Taylor,  who  had  moved 
down  to  Chiswick  with  his  mother  and  brother,  in- 
vited me  to  stay  with  them  to  get  the  Woffington 
play  completed. 

I  really  think  there  was  more  trouble,  more 
labour,  more  worry  in  connection  with  this  play 
than  any  other  play  that  ever  was  written. 

AVhile  Taylor  was  away  at  his  office  I  ^VTote, 
and  when  he  came  back  at  night  he  cut.  Then 
he  wrote  a  bit,  and  I  cut.  It  was  snip,  snap,  slish, 
slash.  We  were  both  pugnacious.  Taylor  had 
the  face  and  the  pluck  of  a  pugilist,  and  I  fear  I 
am  built  that  way  myself,  so  we  rowed  and  rowed, 
fell  out,  and  then  fell  in  again. 

We  were  both  agreed  that  Mrs  Stirling  was  to 
be  our  heroine.  Having,  like  most  of  her  sex,  a 
modest  opinion  of  her  own  capacity,  of  course  she 
must  needs  have  a  finger  in  the  pie. 

"  This  was  too  weak,  that  too  strong ;  this  too 
short,  that  too  long ;  this  too  comic,  that  too  tragic." 

When  Taylor  and  I  agi*eed  to  differ,  she  sided 
with  him,  which  put  my  back  up,  then  there  were 
wars  and  rumours  of  wars. 

He  had  approached  Webster,  who  (subject  to 
certain  alterations)  was  willing  to  produce  the  play 
at  the  Haymarket,  the  theatre  for  which  I  had 
always  designed  it. 

92 


HYDROISING   AT   MALVERN 

I  took  the  jVlS.  for  a  final  revise,  compressed 
here,  expanded  there,  touched  up  everywhere,  and 
returned  it  to  Taylor,  who  took  exception  to  every 
alteration  I  had  made.  Webster  stood  by  him, 
and  that  jade  Stirling  stuck  up  for  him  too. 

Finding  three  to  one  against  me,  I  went  off 
in  a  huff  to  Ipsden. 

The  strain  had  been  too  much,  and  when  I  got 
home  I  broke  down  utterly. 

The  iNIater  got  alarmed.  She  had  heard  a  great 
deal  of  Gully's  famous  hydro,  at  JMalvern,  and 
insisted  on  packing  me  off  there  for  rest  and  re- 
cuperation. 

Alas !  I  got  nothing  but  loneliness,  vexation,  and 
misery.  Although  'twas  "the  merry  month  of 
May,"  it  rained  cats  and  dogs,  morning,  noon,  and 
night.  Gully  gave  himself  the  airs  of  the  Great 
Mogul,  and  his  wretched  patients  trembled  at  the 
fellow's  approach. 

The  meagre  diet  and  the  rigorous  discipline  dis- 
agreed with  me,  so  I  kicked  at  it.  In  coming  to 
Mahern  I  had  another  object  in  view,  which  I 
was  utterly  unable  to  carry  out.  Enraged  beyond 
endurance  with  the  barbarous  treatment  accorded 
to  my  play  (for  it  was  mine  ! )  I  resolved  to  write 
a  novel  on  the  subject,  determined,  at  least,  that 
they  shouldn't  lay  violent  hands  on  that — and  hang 
me !  if  I  could  write  a  line  for  days  and  days.  In 
fine,  during  the  whole  month  of  my  stay  in  this 
mental  and  bodily  ice-house,  I  don't  think  I  wrote, 
at  the  outside,  thirty  pages  of  ^IS.,  besides  which,  I 
gained  neither  health,  strength,  nor  serenity — in  fact, 
I  gained  nothing  but  an  elaborate  study  of  the 
"  Boss,"  which  I  utilised  afterwards  in  "  It's  never 
too  late  to  mend." 

My  mind  was  utterly  collapsing,  and  just  as 
I  had  determined  to  get  out  of  this  cavern  of  de- 
spair, I  got  a  letter  from  the  gentle  James,  telling 
me  that  he  had  heard  from  a  veracious  source  that 
they  had  metamorphosed  "  Masks  and  Faces  "  beyond 
all  recognition. 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

While  writhing  under  this  infliction,  came  a  letter 
from  Taylor,  telling  me  the  rehearsals  had  progressed 
so  satisfactorily  that  the  play  would  be  produced 
the  following  night,  and  that  seats  had  been  re- 
served for  me,  that  he,  Stirling,  Webster — in  fact, 
everybody,  hoped  I  would  come  and  participate  in 
the  triumph  which  they  anticipated. 

The  news  cured  me  of  the  blue  devils  and  set 
blood,  heart,  and  brain  going.     I  was  alive  again ! 

Within  half-an-hour  I  had  settled  up  with  that 
old  beast  of  a  Gully  and  was  on  my  way  to  the 
"  faithful  city,"  where  I  caught  the  express  to  town. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  got  to  the  theatre. 
Upon  inquiring  of  the  stage  manager  about  the 
morrow's  rehearsal  (at  which  I  hoped  to  be  present), 
he  informed  me  that  the  last  rehearsal  had  been 
so  satisfactory,  there  would  be  no  further  call. 
With  this  news  I  comforted  myself  as  best  I  could, 
until  the  curtain  rose  tlie  following  night. 

A  memorable  night  for  all  concerned  ! 

Webster  was  a  bit  loose  in  the  text  (he  always 
is!);  then  that  infernal  "  Zumerzetshire  "  dialect  was 
against  him,  but  he  can  act ;  and  as  for  La  Stirling, 
she  carried  everything  before  her  like  wildfire ;  and 
the  curtain  fell  upon  a  scene  of  unbounded  en- 
thusiasm. 

I  forgot  all  about  the  alterations  and  the  rows, 
and  ramped  round  in  a  transport  of  delight,  embraced 
my  faithless  Peggy  in  sight  of  all  Israel,  hugged 
Taylor  and  Webster,  and  then,  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  was  called  for,  and  Taylor  led  me  before  the 
curtain,  and  the  house  "rose  at  us,"  and  I  cried  for 

joy. 

A  man  of  eight-and-thirty,  brought  up  as  a  nob 
— and,  I  fear,  a  bit  of  a  snob — hide-bound  in  insular 
prejudices,  Vice-Chancellor  of  JNIaudlen  to  boot,  I 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  give  myself  away 
like  that ;  but  a  fella's  only  flesh  and  blood,  after 
all,  and  I  couldn't  help  it. 

What  is  it  Bulwer  says,  high-falutingly  but 
eloquently,  "  I  had  gazed  indignantly  and  from  afar 

94 


AT   LAST! 

at  this  dazzling  and  starry  life,"  and  now  I  was  in 
the  very  thick  of  it.  Yes  ;  I  had  gained  the  prize  at 
last. 

In  years  to  come  I  had,  as  you  know,  my 
triumphs,  but  this  was  the  first  time  I  tasted  blood, 
and  the  cheers  of  the  crowded  and  delighted  pit 
lifted  me  into  the  seventh  heaven. 

If  the  JNIater  could  only  have  seen  that  sight 
and  heard  those  sounds,  I  really  think  she  would 
have  forgiven  poor  Peggy  for  poaching  on  her  pre- 
serves at  Oxford  ! " 


95 


CHAPTER   VII 

GENESIS  OF  "MASKS  AND  FACES" 

Friction  between  the  Authors — Rupture — Dispute  as  to  the  Alloca- 
tion of  Authorship — Reade's  Version  of  the  Collaboration — 
Arnold  Taylor's  Version  —  Tom  Taylor's  Statement  to  the 
Writer — Miserable  Remuneration — Then  and  Now  —  Where 
Boucicault  came  in  —  Facts  and  Figures  —  The  Bancroft 
Revival  at  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Haymarket 

*'  Masks  and  Faces  "  having  become  a  classic,  doubt- 
less destined  to  endure  so  long  as  the  language  in 
which  it  is  written  exists,  in  order  to  preserve  the 
proper  sequence  of  events,  I  have  decided,  at  this 
epoch  in  Mr  Reade's  naiTative,  to  interpolate  and 
place  in  evidence  the  remarkable  developments,  in- 
cidental to  the  inception,  completion,  and  production 
of  this  great  work. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  study  the  "  Amenities 
of  Literature "  to  enable  one  to  arrive  at  the  con- 
clusion that  the  genus  author  is  the  genms  irritabile, 
and  no  two  authors,  no  two  men,  were  more  irascible 
than  Charles  Reade  and  Tom  Taylor. 

Loving  them  both  living,  and  mourning  them 
both  dead,  "  I  persuade  myself  to  speak  the  truth 
and  shall  nothing  wrong  either  of  them  ! " 

Collaboration  seems  easy  enough,  but  it  isn't : 
it  is  a  question  of  give  and  take,  and  requires 
delicacy,  forbearance,  consideration. 

"An'  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one  must  ride 
behind." 

The  question  resolves  itself  into,  "Which  is  it 
to  be  ? " 

96 


READE   LOQUITUR 

If  not  the  better,  Taylor  was  the  older  soldier, 
and  obviously  entitled  to  the  last  word. 

Ultimately  considerable  friction  occurred  and 
radical  differences  of  opinion  arose  as  to  the  re- 
spective share  of  the  two  authors  in  this  work. 
Both  sides  have  a  right  to  be  heard. 

Here  is  the  case,  from  Reade's  point  of  view,  put 
in  his  own  words  : 

"  What  is  the  history  of  this  play  ?  I  wrote  a 
certain  scene  in  which  Triplet,  whose  broad  outlines 
I  then  and  there  drew,  figured ;  and  another  per- 
sonation scene  containing  Peg  AV^offington,  Colley 
Cibber,  and  James  Quin.  I  showed  these  to  Taylor 
as  scenes.  He  liked  these  characters,  and  we  agreed 
to  write  a  comedy. 

"  I  began.  I  wrote  the  greater  part  of  Act  I., 
and  sketched  situations  of  a  second  act — viz.  the 
company  assembled  in  Mr  Vane's  house,  and  INIrs 
Vane's  sudden  appearance  ;  her  kindness  to  Triplet, 
a  mere  sketch  ;  Triplet's  house,  the  first  picture-scene 
almost  as  it  stands  now ;  and  I  wrote  a  little  of  a 
third  act.  Well,  Taylor  came  down  to  me,  added 
to  my  first  act,  filled  up  the  chinks,  got  A'ane  into  a 
better  position,  and  made  the  first  scene  an  act. 

"  I  think  it  lay  idle  for  six  months.  He  then 
went  to  work  and  treated  the  rest  in  the  same  way. 
So  that  at  this  period  he  was  author  of  two-thirds  of 
the  play,  so  far  as  sentences  went.  He  was  satisfied 
with  it,  and  read  it  to  Mrs  Stirling,  who  said  plump, 
'  It  won't  do.'  Full  stop  for  a  month  or  two. 
Then  he  wrote  to  me,  and  I  took  the  bull  by  the 
horns.  Fhnig  Act  I.  into  the  fire,  and  wrote  a  new 
act,  dashing  at  once  into  the  main  story.  I  took  his 
cold  stage  creation.  Pomander,  and  put  alcohol  into 
him,  and,  on  the  plan  of  the  great  French  dramatists, 
I  made  the  plot  work  by  a  constant  close  battle 
between  a  man  and  a  woman.  I  then  took  in  hand 
Act  II.,  and  slashed  through  Taylor's  verbosity,  losing 
none  of  his  beauties  (and  he  had  some  pretty  things)  in 
that  act.  Then  I  came  to  Act  III.,  where  I  found 
my  own  picture-scene  wanted  a  little  alteration.  Then, 
G  97 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

with  the  help  of  a  speech  or  two  of  Mabel's,  as  sweet 
as  honey  (Taylor's),  I  softened  Woffington,  so  that 
she  cried  in  the  frame,  and  Mabel  found  her  out. 

"  Then  I  offered  the  MS.  to  Taylor.  He  did  not 
like  the  fence-and-rail  prepared  for  him,  and  he  said, 
'  You  reconcile  the  two  women,  and  I'll  go  on.' 
Well,  I  did  so,  and  I  was  not  sorry  to  stop,  for  I  was 
working  in  a  high  key,  and  did  not  see  my  way  to 
sustain  it  through  a  mist  of  stagey  manoeuvres  that 
I  saw  ahead.  However,  while  at  Paris  I  did  actually 
finish  the  play  on  thin  paper,  and  sent  it  to  my 
coUahorateur. 

"  He  did  not  like  my  denouement.  Hence  he 
altered  it,  and  read  his  to  Webster,  who  did  not 
like  it.  Taylor  has  altered  it  again,  and  so  the 
matter  stands." 

So  much  for  one  side.  Now  let  us  see  what  the 
other  has  to  say. 

Here's  the  version  of  Tom  Taylor's  brother,  Mr 
Arnold  Taylor : 

"  Charles  Reade  and  Tom  Taylor  first  became 
acquainted  in  the  winter  of  1850-51,  or  spring  of 
1851.  'Twas  in  this  wise:  Mrs  Stirling  had  put 
into  Tom  Taylor's  hands  Reade's  play  of  '  Christie 
Johnstone,'  and  told  the  former  who  and  what  the 
author  of  the  play  was.  My  brother  brought  the 
play  home  to  the  Temple,  where  I  lived  with  him, 
and  the  late  Cuthbert  Ellison,  from  August  1850  to 
August  1851.  Hence  my  ability  to  fix  the  dates 
above  given.  Ellison  and  I  were  going  to  bed,  when 
my  brother  came  in  and  said,  '  Stop  ;  I  want  to  read 
you  a  play  by  an  Oxford  man,  one  Charles  Reade, 
about  whom  Mrs  Stirling  has  been  talking  to 
me.' 

"  We  listened  to  the  play  with  great  interest, 
and  my  brother  warmly  praised  certain  parts  of  it, 
adding,  however,  '  It  is  utterly  unsuited  for  the  stage, 
and  so  I  shall  tell  Mrs  Stirling  when  I  return  her 
the  MS.' 

"  The  verdict  was  a  sad  disappointment  to 
Charles  Reade,  but  he  accepted  it,  and  subsequently 

98 


ARNOLD  TAYLOR  LOQUITUR 

published  the  story  as  a  one-vohime  novel,  in  which 
the  original  dramatic  form  is  visible  throughout. 

"  The  abov^e  incident  led  to  the  subsequent 
intimacy  of  Reade  and  Taylor,  the  introduction  being 
made  through  Mrs  Stirling.  We  saw  Reade  from 
time  to  time  at  our  chambers,  3  Fig-tree  Court, 
Temple,  and  his  great  desire  then  was  to  write  a 
play  in  collaboration  with  my  brother. 

"  In  1851  or  1852  Reade  had  the  idea  of  a  play 
founded  on  Peg  Woffington,  and  I  have  the 
authority  of  my  brother's  assertion,  often  repeated 
in  my  own  hearing  and  that  of  others,  who  can 
corroborate  me,  that  when  Charles  Reade  came  to 
him  on  the  subject,  he  had  one  character,  and  a  bit 
of  one  scene,  together  with  some  vague,  crude  ideas 
how  the  play  was  to  be  worked  into  shape. 

"  In  August  1851  my  mother,  brother,  and  others 
of  my  family  went  to  live  at  Chiswick,  and  it  was 
there  that  the  play  of  '  Masks  and  Faces '  was 
written,  not  entirely,  but  mainly  in  the  form  in 
which  it  was  first  acted. 

"  It  was  first  played  at  the  Haymarket  in 
November  1852.  I  conclude,  therefore,  that  the 
play  must  have  been  written  at  Chiswick,  in  the 
summer  or  autumn  of  that  year. 

"  Anyway,  Reade  was  our  guest  at  Chiswick 
Lodge,  and  the  method  of  writing  the  play  was  this, 
that  during  the  day  (my  brother  being  in  town  at  his 
office)  Reade  wrote  long  passages,  which  were  as 
ruthlessly  cut  to  pieces,  or  rejected,  at  night  by  my 
brother,  when  they  sat  down  to  put  together  and 
complete  their  work.  And  morning  after  morning, 
as  I  well  remember,  when  we  were  at  breakfast, 
Reade  used,  half  in  sorrow,  half  in  fun,  to  say  to  my 
mother,  '  There,  Mrs  Taylor,  my  gentleman  has  been 
at  his  old  game.  He  has  cut  out  every  line  of  that 
dialogue,  and  all  those  sentiments  you  so  much 
admired  when  I  read  them  to  you  yesterday  after- 
noon.' 

"  In  this  way  the  writing  of  the  play  went  on 
till   its    completion    in    three    acts.     Amongst    my 

99 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

brother's  MSS.  I  have  found  a  fair  copy,  made  by 
myself  for  the  authors,  of  Act  I.  In  this  fair 
copy,  corrected  subsequently  in  my  brother's  hand- 
writing, as  the  MS.  shows,  there  is  a  great  deal 
wholly  omitted  from  the  play  as  acted,  but  a  great 
deal  which  was  subsequently  introduced  by  Reade 
into  his  novel  of  '  Peg  Woffington.' 

"  Then  followed  further  alterations.  Very  much 
to  Reade's  vexation,  and  contrary  to  all  his  ideas  and 
wishes,  the  play  was  cut  down  by  my  brother  to  two 
acts,  and  worked  by  him  into  the  shape  in  which  it 
was  finally  acted  at  the  Haymarket. 

"  I  have  abundant  proofs  in  letters  of  Reade, 
written  to  my  brother  in  1852,  how  much  this  change 
went  against  the  grain  with  him.  He  even  objects 
to  certain  minor  characters,  and  the  names  they  bear. 
Further,  these  letters  contain  repeated  evidence  that 
Reade  then  fully  recognised  the  difference  between 
himself,  an  unknown  author,  and  a  successful 
dramatist  like  my  brother. 

"  The  latter,  however,  was  never  slow  to  do  the 
fullest  justice  to  a  fellow-workman.  And,  often  as 
I  have  heard  him  mention  the  one  character  and  part 
of  one  scene  alluded  to,  I  always  heard  him  add, 
'  But  the  beginning  of  the  second  act,  the  scene  in 
the  garret  between  Peg  Woffington  and  Triplet  and 
his  family — the  best,  I  think,  in  the  whole  play — was 
entirely  Charles  Reade's.' 

" '  Masks  and  Faces '  proving  a  great  success, 
Reade  then,  without  so  much  as  naming  his  inten- 
tion to  my  brother,  produced  the  novel  of  '  Peg 
Woffington.' 

"  This  naturally  set  people  asking  whether  the 
play  of  '  Masks  and  Faces '  or  the  novel  of '  Peg 
Woffington '  was  written  first  ?  If  the  latter,  all  the 
credit  or  originality  rested  with  Reade,  and  Tom 
Taylor  had  merely  been  asked  to  use  his  experience 
as  a  playwright,  and  throw  the  story  into  dramatic 
form. 

"  My  brother  having  remonstrated  with  Reade  on 
the  line  he  had  taken,  the  latter  then  prefixed  to  the 

100 


QUOT   HOMINES,   TOT   SENTENTIiE 

novel  the  dedication,  dated  15th  December  1852, 
'  To  Tom  Taylor,  my  friend  and  coadjutor  in  the 
comedy  of  "  JNIasks  and  Faces,"  to  whom  the  reader 
owes  much  of  the  best  matter  of  this  tale.' 

"  I  find  the  same  dedication  repeated  in  a  new 
edition  of  'Peg  Woffington,'  published  in  1857. 

"  I  thought,  and  still  think,  and  said  so  at  the 
time  to  my  brother,  that  the  language  of  the  dedica- 
tion was  not  adequate  to  the  circumstances  and  the 
facts. 

"  His  answer,  as  far  as  I  can  recall  it,  was, 
*  Reade's  a  queer  fellow,  with  odd  notions  about  the 
rights  and  wrongs  of  things,  and  I'm  quite  willing  to 
let  the  whole  thing  pass  and  be  forgotten.' 

"  But  the  matter  left,  I  think,  a  soreness  on  both 
sides,  for  it  was  not  until  April  1854  that  their 
second  play,  '  Two  I.,oves  and  a  Life,'  was  produced 
at  the  Adelphi,  and  their  third,  '  The  King's  Rival,' 
at  St  James's,  in  October  of  the  same  year. 

"  Shortly  after  the  production  of  '  jNIasks  and 
Faces,'  Reade  produced  a  play,  all  his  own,  '  Gold,' 
which  I  well  remember  seeing  at  Drury  Lane. 

"  It  is  only  necessary  to  recall  that  immature 
production  to  be  convinced  that  the  hand  that  wrote 
it  was  incapable  of  the  terse,  sparkling,  and  polished 
finish  of  '  jMasks  and  Faces.' 

"  The  play,  as  iii'st  produced,  was,  as  every  one 
knows,  an  immense  success.  It  may  therefore  be 
inferred  that  the  cutting  dozvn  the  thi^ee  acts  to  tico, 
the  changes  in  the  scenes  and  incidents,  the  cutting 
out  of  some  and  the  insertion  of  other  minor 
characters,  all  done  by  Tom  Taylor,  against  Reade's 
wish  or  consent,  as  his  own  letters  show,  had  much 
to  do  with  the  success  of  the  play  during  its  run  at 
the  Haymarket  in  1852,  and  subsequently  at  the 
Adelphi. 

"  I  therefore  sum  up  my  narrative  of  what  is 
within  my  own  knowledge  by  saying  that  I  believe 
JVlrs  Seymour  had  no  acquaintance  with  Reade  when 
'  Masks  and  Faces '  was  written  by  him  and  Tom 
Taylor ;   that  the   idea   of  making  Peg  WofTuigton 

101 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

the  heroine  of  a  play  was  exchisively  Reade's ;  that 
the  shaping  of  the  play  into  the  form  in  which  it 
was  finally  produced  was  Tom  Taylor's  ;  but  that  the 
credit  of  the  play  should  be  equally  divided  between 
the  two  authors,  as  each  brouglit  to  the  work 
qualities  and  powers  peculiarly  his  own,  the  ulti- 
mate result  being  the  production  of  certainly  one  of 
the  very  best  and  most  finished  comedies  of  modern 
times." 

So  much  for  Mr  Arnold  Taylor's  version.  Now 
for  mine. 

Mr  Tom  Taylor  himself  informed  me  how  he 
became  acquainted  with  Reade,  and  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  their  collaboration  in  "  Masks  and 
Faces." 

*'  Reade,"  said  he,  "  had  written  a  play  called 
*  Christie  Johnstone,'  which  he  had  sent  to  Mrs 
Stirling,  who  passed  it  on  to  me.  One  night,  while 
swinging  in  my  hammock  at  my  chambers  in  the 
Temple,  I  read  it  to  my  brother  Arnold  and  a  friend. 
I  was  struck  with  the  power  and  vigour  of  the 
diction  and  the  exciting  nature  of  the  incidents,  but 
thought  the  plot  quite  unsuitable  for  dramatic  treat- 
ment. Under  this  impression,  I  wrote  to  Reade, 
urging  him  to  convert  the  drama  into  a  story, 
suggesting  a  particular  mode  of  treatment,  con- 
cluding the  letter  with  the  famous  quotation,  '  Yea, 
by ! '  said  my  uncle  Toby,  '  it  shall  not  die  ! ' 

"  This  led  to  an  acquaintance  which  soon  ripened 
into  intimacy  between  Reade  and  myself,  during 
which  he  suggested  the  idea  of  collaborating  in  a 
comedy  with  Peg  Wofiington  for  the  heroine. 

"  The  notion  struck  me  as  being  a  very  good  one, 
and  I  assented  to  it.  He  sent  me  one  scene — crude 
and  invertebrate,  but  promising.  Then  he  wrote 
reams  and  reams  of  impractical  and  impossible  stuff 
which  1  had  to  knife. 

"  By-and-by  he  came  down  and  stayed  with  us 
at  Chiswick,  where  the  same  process  was  repeated 
nightly. 

"  At  last  I  had  to  rewrite  the  play  from  stem  to 

102 


TOM   TAYLOR  LOQUITUR 

stern,  and  he  '  rucked '  at  it.  Then  he  had  a  shy— 
and  I  had  another. 

"  At  last  the  thing  got  so  mixed,  that  hang  me  if 
I  can't  tell  which  was  his  share  and  which  was  mine. 

"  I  only  know  that,  conditional  upon  the  play's 
being  accepted  at  the  Haymarket,  I  insisted  on  the 
last  word,  and  had  it. 

"  As  you  are  aware,  he  is  hot  -  tempered — and 
when  crossed  I  am  not  the  most  amiable  fellow  in  the 
world — so  there  was  a  row.    He  went  away  telling  me 

to  do  what  I  liked  with  '  the  d d  thing ' — only  his 

language  was,  if  possible,  a  little  more  Saxon  than 
that. 

'*  To  be  precise  as  to  our  relations  to  this  play,  he 
invented  the  idea,  suggested  nearly  all  the  characters, 
and  most  of  the  incidents,  but  he  put  them  together 
higgledy-piggledy.  They  stood  on  their  heads,  and  I 
put  them  on  their  heels. 

"The  picture,  eh?  You  may  be  right — I  dare- 
say you  are.  I  don't  care  a  button  whether  you  are 
or  not.  The  incident  was  good  enough  for  him, 
wherever  he  found  it,  good  enough  for  me,  and 
evidently  good  enough  for  the  public  ! 

"  As  for  the  novel  ?  Well,  I  was  a  little  riled 
about  that ;  but  you  know  he  is  always  a  great  boy 
of  a  fellow,  and  very  lovable  at  times,  so  I  let  it  pass. 
And  now,  pass  the  bottle." 

Apropos  of  the  "picture  incident"  to  which  Taylor 
refers  in  the  previous  statement,  Reade  was  under 
the  firm  impression  that  he  had  invented  the  incident 
of  Peg's  posing  in  the  picture  in  Triplet's  garret. 

There  is  no  doubt  he  believed  so — but  observe : 

Bayle  Bernard  had  availed  himself  of  it  in  "  The 
Mummy  "  long  prior  to  the  production  of  "  Masks  and 
Faces,"  and  there  is  a  play  of  Kotzebe's,  the  name 
of  which  I  cannot  call  to  mind,  although  I  happen 
to  have  acted  in  an  English  version  at  Bath  in  my 
youth,  which,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  was  called 
"  The  Old  Commodore,"  and  the  title  i^ole  was  played 
by  JNIunden.  There  there  is  an  old  sailor  (a  very 
fine  part),  originally  played  by  Jack  Bannister.     This 

103 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

was  the  part  allotted  to  me.  In  the  last  act  there 
is  the  identical  incident  of  the  picture.  Besides 
which,  there  is  an  old  ballet  d'action  which  I  have 
seen  played  scores  of  times  by  the  famous  panto- 
mimists  the  Leclerqs  and  Bolenos,  in  which  the  same 
incident  occurs.  " 

Reade  himself  told  me  that  the  present  last  act 
of  this  play  was  originally  intended  for  the  first, 
and  that,  when  it  was  transposed  to  the  position  it 
now  occupies,  he  wi'ote  a  new  first  act,  which  he 
submitted  to  Taylor  for  liis  approval. 

The  latter  returned  it  witli  a  laconic  note,  stating 
that  there  were  only  six  lines  worth  retaining,  and 
that  they  wanted  re- writing. 

The  Charles  Reade  of  that  epoch  was  not  the 
Charles  Reade  of  later  days. 

At  this  period  of  his  career  as  a  dramatist  evi- 
dently he  believed  that  "  humility  is  the  first  step  on 
the  ladder  of  wisdom,"  inasmuch  as  he  wrote  back  to 
his  collaborator :  "  You  say  there  are  only  six  lines 
worth  retaining.  I  can  find  only  three.  These  I've 
preserved,  and  the  others  I've  put  on  the  fire." 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  —  except 
treatment,  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  Reade 
and  Taylor  treated  the  incident  of  the  picture 
in  a  masterly  manner. 

However  the  share  of  the  composition  of  "  JNIasks 
and  Faces"  may  be  allotted,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that,  whoever  did  the  work,  it  was  well  done. 

If  Reade  "raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies,"  surely 
Taylor  "  drew  an  angel  down  " ;  and  the  triumphant 
reception  of  the  play  placed  both  men  on  a  pedestal 
from  which  they  have  not  since  been  dislodged. 

Yet  how  paltry  was  the  remuneration  for  these 
months  of  patient  toil !  This  masterpiece  was 
actually  sold  to  Webster  for  £150 ! 

Twenty-one  years  after  its  original  production, 
Reade  himself  paid  £200  (that  is  to  say,  £125  more 
than  he  had  actually  received  !)  to  redeem  and  re- 
sume the  rights  in  "  Masks  and  Faces." 

What  remuneration  he  received  on  the  first  pro- 

104 


SIR  SQUIRE   BANCROFT   AS   TRIPLET 


BANCROFT   LOQUITUR 

duction  of  the  play  at  the  Prince  of  Wales's  (in 
1875)  I  don't  know,  but  the  honorarium  paid  on 
the  last  revival  is  clearly  set  forth  in  the  following 
note  from  Sir  Squire  Bancroft  to  Reade's  literary 
executor : — 

"  On  the  occasion  of  the  last  revival  of  '  Masks 
and  Faces '  we  paid  JNIr  Reade  £3  a  night. 

"  It  must,  of  course,  be  remembered  that  the 
three-act  form  of  '  JNlasks  and  Faces '  was  due  to  our 
suggestion  ;  but,  after  our  next  season,  we  shall  be 
quite  content  for  the  rights  in  such  new  scenes  and 
alterations  to  be  solely  yours." 

According  to  Reade's  statement,  which  is  corro- 
borated by  Arnold  Taylor  (see  ante),  the  play  was 
originally  constructed  in  three  acts,  but  Tom  Taylor 
insisted  on  cutting  it  down  to  two.  Yet,  after  an 
interval  of  more  than  twenty  years,  the  Bancrofts 
instinctively  reverted  to  the  original  arrangement. 

By  their  courtesy  I  am  enabled  to  quote  the 
following  extracts  from  their  interesting  work,  "  On 
and  Off  the  Stage  : —  " 

"It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  persuade  Charles 
Reade,  to  whom  this  comedy  belonged  (he  having 
some  years  before  bought  Tom  Taylor's  share  from 
him),  and  with  whom  all  our  negotiations  took  place, 
to  give  his  consent  to  the  changes  we  wished  to 
make.  At  length,  however,  after  many  a  tough 
fight,  we  won  the  day  and  gained  our  wish,  having 
afterwards  the  great  satisfaction  of  Reade's  approval 
of  every  change ;  and  when  the  play  reverted  to 
him,  he  discarded  the  old  book  for  ever,  and  ordered 
replicas  of  our  prompt  copy  for  his  future  use. 

"  There  have  been  so  many  and  such  varying 
statements  made  concerning  these  alterations  of 
'  JNIasks  and  Faces,'  that  perhaps  the  following  out- 
line of  facts  upon  the  subject  may  still  have  interest, 
especially  to  the  admirers  of  the  two  distinguished 
authors,  who  might  be  fairly  called  the  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  of  this  century. 

"  First,  it  was  advisable,  in  our  opinion,  that  the 
play  should  be  in  thi^ee,  instead  of  two  acts  as  hitherto, 

105 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

hence  we  supplied  an  opening  scene.  To  aid  this 
view,  Mrs  Bancroft  drew  up  a  rough  sketch  of  an 
interview  between  Quin  and  Kitty  Chve,  to  end  in 
a  quarrel  over  their  criticisms.  This  notion,  Reade 
at  once  agreed  to,  and  in  his  large-hearted  way- 
proposed  that  Tom  Taylor  should  be  asked  to  write 
the  dialogue,  that  he  might  have  the  fee  we  pro- 
posed to  give  for  the  work,  as  it  would  be  to  him 
a  little  consolation  for  no  longer  sharing  in  the 
nightly  royalties.  Taylor  agreed,  wrote  the  scene 
admirably,  and  gracefully  acknowledged  our  cheque 
for  £.50,  which  he  was  good  enough  to  think  a  far 
larger  sum  than  his  work  entitled  him  to  accept. 
Some  changes  at  the  end  of  Act  I.  were  made  by 
Reade.  The  dialogue  of  the  scene  at  Ernest  Vane's 
house  remained  virtually  the  same  so  far  as  mere 
words  went,  although,  here  and  there,  it  was  better 
hook-and-eyed  together ;  a  few  speeches  and  lines, 
having  no  pretence  in  a  literary  sense,  but  of  great 
value  in  the  acting,  being  now  and  again  added 
by  Reade  at  our  suggestion  throughout  the  work ; 
but  it  was  the  treatment  of  the  play  we  chiefly 
ventured  to  alter,  not  the  play  itself. 

"  Our  great  fight  was  over  the  end  of  it ;  and 
only  after  many  struggles  did  Reade  allow  us  to 
cut  out  the  old  stagey,  rhyming  tag,  and  agree  to 
the  pathetic  ending  we  proposed.  We  conquered 
him  at  last  by  acting  to  him  what  we  wished  to  do, 
when  Peg,  just  before  we  wanted*  the  curtain  to 
fall,  tearfully  accepted  the  tenderly,  though  modestly, 
offered  sympathy  of  the  grateful  Triplet,  and  dropped 
her  head  upon  his  breast.  Reade  cried  like  a  child, 
and  said  to  my  wife  :  '  You're  right,  my  dear  ;  you're 
a  woman,  and  of  course  you're  right ;  you  shall 
have  it  your  own  way.'  In  a  letter  written  after- 
wards he  says :  *  Dear  Peg,  you  are  too  much  for 
me ;  and  after  this  I  don't  measure  my  wit  against 
yours  for  a  month  or  two.  I  '*  cave  in,"  as  the 
Yankees  say,  and  submit  at  once  to  your  proposal.' 

"  We  had  many  a  talk  together  about  the  play 
with  Reade,  as  to  which  was  his  share,  and  which 

106 


TRIA   JUNCTA   IN  UNO 

was  Tom  Taylor's ;  he  frankly  told  us  the  whole 
story  of  its  growth  and  completion,  always  regard- 
ing the  work  as  fairly  divided  between  them.  The 
conception  of  the  play,  which  arose  from  his  looking 
for  a  long  time  one  day  at  Hogarth's  portrait  of 
Peg  Woffington  in  the  Garrick  Club,  and  its  most 
beautiful  scene,  were  certainly  Reade's  ;  but  Taylor 
was  responsible  for  a  delightful  part  of  the  second 
act,  and  undoubtedly  put  many  of  Reade's  early 
ideas  into  more  workmanlike  shape. 

"  \^ery  dihgent  rehearsals  attended  this  produc- 
tion, and  we  did  not  feel  it  ready  to  face  the  heat 
of    criticism     until     November.      On    Friday,    5th, 

*  JNIoney '  was  withdrawn,  and  the  following  night 
we  acted  the  revised  version  of  Reade  and  Taylor's 
play  for  the  first  time,  with  the  following  cast : — 
Sir  Charles  Pomander,  Mr.  Coghlan  ;  Ernest  \"ane, 
Mr  Archer ;  Colley  Cibber,  Mr  Arthur  Wood ; 
Jam^-t^ntH,  Mr  Teesdale ;  Triplet,  JNlr  Bancroft; 
Mr  Snarl,  Mr  F.  Dewar ;  j^Ir  Soaper,  Mr  F.  Glover ; 
Lysimachus,  IMaster  Glover ;  James  Burdock,  Mr 
Stewart ;  Colander,  INlr  Denison ;  Hunasdon,  INlr 
Newton;  Peg  Woffington,  Miss  Marie  Wilton 
(Mrs  Bancroft);  Mabel  Vane,  31iss~Fllerr~Terry ; 
Kitty  Clive,  Miss  Brennan  ;  Mrs  Triplet,  3Iiss  Lee  ; 
Roxalana,  Miss  Glover.  Act  I. :  The  Green  Room 
of  Old  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  Act  II.;  No.  51 
Queen  Square.     Act  III. :  Triplet's  Home. 

"I  (S.  B.  B.)  may  here  say  it  was  not  without 
much  fear  and  trembling  that  I  resolved  to  play 
the  part  of  Triplet.  I  felt,  however,  unless  I  made 
some  effort  equally  bold,  that  I  should  be  doomed 
to  the  inanition  of  ringing  the  changes  on  what 
had    now    for     some     time     grown    to    be    called 

*  Bancroft  parts.'  Happily,  through  hard  work 
and  patient  thought,  my  ambition  met  with  some 
reward.  During  the  run  of  the  play,  I  remember 
attending  a  meeting  of  a  theatrical  character,  held 
at  the  Mansion-House.  Its  object  has  escaped  my 
recollection  ;  but  what  lives  in  my  memory  is  en- 
countering Benjamin  Webster  there.     The  old  actor, 

107 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

after  looking  long  and  earnestly  at  me  for  some 
time,  said  pleasant,  graceful  things  of  his  own  old 
part  to  the  younger  Triplet. 

'*  Success  of  the  highest  kind  rewarded  our  work, 
and  it  has  throughout  been  our  impression  that 
*  Masks  and  P'aces '  has,  in  all  ways,  been  one  of 
our  truest  friends.  Permission  was  obtained  from 
the  committee  of  the  Garrick  Club  to  have  copies 
made  of  some  pictures  of  the  time  from  its  cele- 
brated collection,  and  so  we  adorned  the  walls  of 
the  first  act,  which  represented  the  green-room  of 
Old  Co  vent  Garden  Theatre,  with  reproductions 
of  Grisson's  portrait  of  Colley  Cibber  as  I^ord 
Foppington ;  the  well-known  picture  of  Garrick 
as  Richard  III.  ;  Vandergucht's  portrait  of  Wood- 
ward as  Petruchio ;  and  Zoffany's  Garrick,  and 
Mrs  Pritchard  in  JNIacbeth,  dressed  in  court  clothes 
of  the  period. 

"  The  beautiful  tapestry  chamber  which  formed  the 
scene  of  the  second  act  was,  perhaps,  with  a  group 
of  characters  on  the  stage,  one  of  the  most  real 
pictures  of  those  times  ever  shown  in  a  theatre. 

"  Reade,  though  very  critical,  was  very  pleased. 
On  reaching  home  after  the  first  performance,  he 
wrote  the  following  lines  and  sent  with  them 
in  the  morning  an  autograph  letter  of  Margaret 
Woffington's : — 

" '  Presented  by  Charles  Reade  to  his  friend  Mrs 
Bancroft,  upon  her  admirable  personification  of  Peg 
Woffington  in  "  Masks  and  Faces."— C.  R.  Nov.  6, 
1875.'" 

Upon  Reade's  invitation  I  came  up  to  town  to 
see  the  first  night  of  the  revival  of  this  delightful 
work  at  the  Prince  of  Wales's,  and  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  Bancrofts  I  saw  the  last  at  the  Haymarket, 
on  their  retirement  from  the  stage,  20th  July  1885. 

In  the  first  instance,  I  was  under  the  impression 
that  these  accomplished  artistes  had  overweighted 
themselves    with    Peg    and    Triplet,    and    did    not 

108 


LADY    BANCROFT   A8   PEG 


TOUCHING   THE   BANCROFTS 

hesitate  to  say  so  to  Reade.  "  Wait,  and  you'll 
see,"  he  replied. 

I  did  wait,  and  when  1  had  seen,  I  avowed 
that  I  had  been  mistaken. 

"  I  knew  it,  I  knew  you'd  say  so  I "  Reade  ex- 
claimed. "  I  wish  you'd  write  and  say  to  them 
half  the  pleasant  things  you've  said  to  me." 

'*  No,  thanks ! "  I  replied.  "  We  actors  are  a 
thin-skinned  race,  and  they  might  not  appreciate 
my  opinion." 

I  say  now,  however,  that,  having  been  familiar 
with  Lady  Bancroft's  career  from  its  commence- 
ment, and  with  most  of  her  husband's,  that 

"  Nothing  in  (their  artistic)  life 
Became  (them)  like  the  leaving  it !  " 

and  that,  so  far  as  I  am  qualified  to  form  an 
opinion,  their  impersonations  of  Margaret  Woffington 
and  James  Triplet  may  challenge  comparison  with 
the  best,  and  hold  their  own.  More  than  that, 
their  alterations  are  distinct  improvements,  more 
especially  the  pathetic  termination  which  now  super- 
sedes the  '  ti-tum-ti '  stuff  which  preceded  it. 

I  dwell  on  this  feature  especially,  inasmuch  as 
the  author  {i.e.  the  genus  author)  is  but  too  apt  to 
maintain  that  the  actor  is  always  anxious  to  sacri- 
fice good  taste  in  order  to  curry  favour  with  the 
"groundlings." 

Now  these  distinguished  artists  deliberately  pre- 
ferred to  relinquish  rounds  and  rounds  of  applause 
(easily  elicited  from  a  fashionable  clientele,  by  the 
delivery  of  half-a-dozen  lines  of  frivolous  nonsense) 
in  order  that  they  might  reach  the  nobler  region, 
where  Pity  lies  beside  the  fount  of  tears. 

I  can  answer  for  one  auditor  who  (not  ashamed 
to  be  a  boy  again)  felt  the  mother  stir  within  his 
heart  and  eyes  when  the  curtain  fell  on  sweet  Peggy 
weeping  on  dear  old  Triplet's  breast. 

In  Garrick's  time,  Dr  Johnson  got  for  six 
nights  of  "Irene"  (a  bitter,  bad  play)  £315;  Lillo, 

109 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

for  his  stupid  "George  Barnwell,"  £1000;  Night- 
thoughts  Young  got  a  large  sum  for  "  The  Revenge," 
and  £1000  for  "The  Brothers";  Goldsmith  £900 
for  "  She  stoops  to  Conquer " ;  while  at  a  later 
period  Holcroft  got  for  "  The  Road  to  Ruin  "  £1300  ; 
and  for  "  The  Follies  of  a  Night,"  a  translation  of 
Beaumarchais'  "  Figaro,"  £900  ;  and  in  the  days  of 
Reynolds,  Morion,  and  Mrs  Inchbald,  it  was  not  an 
uncommon  thing  for  a  dramatist  to  receive  £1000 
or  £1500  cash  for  a  play,  or  even  for  an  adaptation, 
and  it  is  on  record  that  George  Colman  actually 
received  £2000  for  "John  Bull"  I  Yet  to  such  an 
extent  had  the  value  of  dramatic  work  deterior- 
ated, that  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  the  most  attrac- 
tive play  by  the  most  popular  author  of  the 
period,  was  sold  to  Macready  for  £210,  and  so 
flattered  and  delighted  was  Bulwer  by  its  success 
after  the  failure  of  his  preceding  play,  "  The  Duchess 
I^a  Valli^re,"  that  he  declined  to  receive  any  re- 
muneration whatever,  and  made  a  free  gift  of  the 
piece  to  Macready.* 

To  render  unto  Ca?sar  the  things  which  are  Caesar's, 
it  is  only  just  to  the  memory  of  a  much-maligned  but 
remarkable  man  to  record  the  fact  that  Dion  Bouci- 
cault  was  the  first  person  to  emancipate  the  helpless 
author  from  the  thraldom  of  the  dominant  manager. 

Singularly  enough,  the  emancipation  arose  not 
from  Boucicault's  preternatural  'cuteness,  but  (so  he 
assured  me)  from  the  impecuniosity  of  an  American 
manager,  who,  being  unable  to  pay  the  modest 
honorarium  of  a  thousand  dollars  to  which  the 
author  was  entitled,  suggested  as  an  equivalent  a 
certain  percentage  of  the  receipts. 

Being  hard  up,  he  accepted  the  proposal  with 
dire  misgivings  as  to  the  result. 

*  "  March  2nd. — Wrote  to  Bulwer,  with  a  box  for  his  mother  and  a 
cheque  for  £210. 

"  March  22nd. — Received  a  letter  from  Bulwer,  returning  me  the 
cheque  for  £210,  which  is  a  recompense  for  much  ill-requited  labour 
and  suffering.  It  is  an  honour  to  him  and  a  subject  of  much  pride 
to  myself."     "Macready's  Diary,"  1838. 

110 


DION   THE   EMANCIPATOR 

To  his  amazement,  instead  of  the  thousand  dollars 
to  which  he  was  originally  entitled,  "  Boucy,"  actually 
netted  thousands  and  thousands  of  dollars  ! 

From  that  time  forth,  he  held  on  to  the  custom, 
and  introduced  it  here,  where  it  prevails  to  this  day. 

For  "  Two  Loves  and  a  Life,"  the  best,  the  very 
best  play  ever  written  by  Taylor  and  Reade,  they 
received  between  them  £100,  while  for  the  "  The 
Ticket-of- Leave  Man,"  which,  except  "  Hamlet," 
"  The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  and  "  East  Lynne,"  has 
drawTi  more  money  than  any  play  ever  acted,  Taylor 
received  the  munificent  honorarium  of  £150,  out  of 
which  he  had  to  pay  something  to  a  friendly  ghost 
who  translated  it  ("convey,"  the  wise  it  call)  from 
the  French ;  whereas,  Boucicault  soon  afterwards 
inaugurated  the  system  which  enabled  him  to  make 
thousands  and  thousands  out  of  the  "  Colleen  Bawn," 
the  "  Octoroon,"  "  Arrah  na  Pogue,"  "  Streets  of 
London,"  and  "After  Dark." 

In  fact,  he  made  more  out  of  one  piece  than 
Tom  Taylor  did  out  of  a  hundred  ! 


Ill 


CHArTER  VIII 

ANONYMS 

Adventure  in  the  Vestibule  of  the  Old  Haymarket — A  Cab  and  a 
Quandary  —  Triplet  and  Peggy  and  the  Fair  Anonymae  —  A 
remai-kable  Coincidence  at  the  Hummums — Jenny  Lind  and 
the  Opera — Jealousy — A  Trip  to  Durham  with  a  Compagne 
du  Voyage — Beauty  and  the  Beast — An  Actor  and  a  Horse- 
whip —  Durham  Jail  and  the  Governor  —  The  Chaplain  and 
his  Patients — Leo  and  the  Pickpocket — Origin  and  Evolution 
of  "  Gold  " — "Gold"  written  and  read  to  Charles  Kean  and 
the  Keeleys — Non  possumus — Sold  to  Slavery — Two  Letters 

"  Want    to    know    how    "  Never    too    late "    was 
born,  eh  ? 

It  never  was  born,  sah  1     Like  Topsy  "  it  growed." 

How — how  ?  Why,  through  a  woman,  of  course. 
That  is  to  say,  the  original  conception  of  the  thing. 
Since  the  time  of  Mother  Eve  woman  has  been  in 
at  the  beginning  of  everything. 

It  was  during  the  early  run  of  "  Masks  and 
Faces "  at  the  Haymarket.  The  theatre  was 
crammed  to  suffocation.  Just  as  the  curtain  fell, 
down  came  a  deluge ;  the  audience  streamed  out 
from  boxes,  private  boxes,  and  upper  circle  into  the 
vestibule  (you  know  how  miserably  small  it  is  even 
now !).  People  at  front  couldn't  get  out  for  the 
rain,  while  people  at  back  struggled  to  get  to  the 
front.  Caught  in  the  crowd,  I  was  cannoned  full 
butt  against  a  lady  immediately  in  front  of  me,  and 
fortunately,  yes,  I  repeat,  most  fortunately,  trod 
upon  her  opera-cloak. 

As  she  turned  upon  me  like  a  tigi^ess,  the  sight 
of  her  flashing  eyes  and  her  marvellous  beauty  took 
my  breath  away.  Anything  so  gorgeous  I  never 
saw  before,  nor  have  I  ever  seen  since. 

112 


THE   LILY   OF   DURHAM 

Tall  and  stately  as  a  ship  in  full  sail,  with  square 
brows,  eyes  blue  one  moment,  grey  or  green  the 
next,  short,  straight  nose,  ruddy  lips,  complexion 
like  a  ripe  peach,  a  wealth  of  sunny  brown  hair, 
and  the  loveliest  neck  and  shoulders  possible  to 
imagine. 

Her  dress  was  of  some  diaphanous  stuff,  of  pale 
sea-green,  over  it  a  white  burnous  (the  beautiful 
garment  which  I  had  defiled  with  my  clumsy  hoof). 
Flowers — roses  and  lilies  of  the  valley  and  fern 
leaves — were  in  her  hair  and  on  her  neck. 

She  told  me  afterwards  that,  as  our  eyes  met, 
I  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"  Really,  it  is  not  my  fault !  I  couldn't  help  it 
— 'pon  my  soul,  I  couldn't !  "  I  gasped. 

She  relaxed  into  a  smile,  murmured  something 
about  a  cab.  1  offered  to  get  one,  she  assented, 
and  I  made  my  way  towards  the  portico.  A  cab 
was  not  to  be  liad  for  love  or  money ;  indeed, 
crowds  were  fighting  for  them  at  the  Opera  op- 
posite. The  fireman,  however,  promised  to  do 
his  best,  and  I   returned  to  say  as  much. 

Presently  fireman  came  to  report  progress. 

"  I^aidy'll  have  to  wait  'alf-an-hour,  sir,  afore  her 
turn.  Seein'  as  'ow  she's  a  friend  o'  yourn,  sir,  I  tuk 
the  liberty  o'  bordering  cab  round  to  the  stage-door 
in  Suffolk  Street.  If  you'll  let  me  show  you  hover 
the  stage,  you're  there  in  less  nor  no  time,  sir." 

I  hesitated — my  lady  didn't,  but  simply  replied, 
"  Thanks,  so  much.     Should  like  it  awfully  ! " 

Fireman,  bent  on  a  tip,  let  us  through  the 
side  door  with  his  pass-key,  and  showed  us  on  the 
stage.  The  scene  was  being  struck.  Triplet  and 
Peggy  were  discussing  something  or  other.  When 
they  caught  sight  of  us  His  face  (he  was  a  gay  old 
dog !)  lighted  up  like  sunshine ;  Hers  clouded  like  a 
thunder-storm. 

"  Brought  your  fair  friend,  doctor,  to  have  a  peep 
behind  the  scenes  ? "  said  he.     "  Introduce  me." 

Here  was  a  dilemma:  I  didn't  know  my  lady's 
name. 

H  113 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

I  have  always  noted,  however,  that  in  emergencies 
of  this  kind,  women  are  much  more  self-possessed 
than  men,  so  while  I  stuttered  and  stammered, 
"  Oh  yes  !  Certainly  ! — Miss— JNIiss— ah—  !  "  She 
supplied  the  missing  link  by  calmly  interpolating, 
"  Smith — Wentworth  Smith." 

Ben  was  a  born  lady-killer.     He  had  paid  pretty 
dearly,    though,    for   acquiring   the   accomplishment. 
While  yet  a  lad,  a  mature  and  majestic  widow,  old 
enough  to  be  his  mother,  with  a  ready-made  family 
of    four   children,    had    got    him    in    a   corner,    and, 
willy  nilly,  chained  and  secured  him  in  the  bonds 
of  matrimony.       He  was  then  only  eighteen.      At 
eighty  the  3'oung  rascal  married  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
who,  in  due  course,  made  him  a  happy  father  !    On  the 
present  occasion  he  monopolised  the  conversation. 
"  Who's  your  friend  ?  "  demanded  Peg,  sharply. 
*'  Don't  know." 
"Not!" 

"  Never  saw  the  lady  in  my  life  before." 
"  Then  how  dare  you  bring  her  here  ?  " 
'*  Pure  accident,  I  assure  you.     If  you  will  allow 

me  to  explain " 

"  I  require  no  explanation.  I  don't  form  promis- 
cuous acquaintances,  and  don't  care  about  knowing 
people  who  do.     Good-bye,  sir." 

And,  with  a  haughty  curtsey  to  me,  and  a  baleful 
look  at  the  fair  stranger,  the  irate  Peggy  swept  off. 

At  the  very  moment  when  I  was  wishing  my 
new  acquaintance  at  Jerusalem  or  Jericho  !  my  friend 
the  fireman  announced  the  cab ;  whereupon,  cutting 
short  Triplet's  compliments,  I  escorted  my  lady  to 
the  stage  -  door.  Having  handed  her  into  the 
Hansom  (for  it  was  one),  I  inquired,  "  Where  to  ? " 
"  The  Hummums.  Can  I  give  you  a  lift  ?  " 
I  couldn't  have  made  Peggy  or  Triplet  or  even 
you,  sir,  for  that  matter,  understand  the  remarkable 
coincidence  that  I  happened  to  be  staying  there 
myself,  but  so  it  was !  It  was  still  raining  cats 
and  dogs,  so  I  stepped  out  of  the  storm  into  the 
cab,  and  off  we  drove  to  the  Hummums  together. 

114 


ROXALANA   AND   STATIRA 

On  our  arrival,  I  asked  permission  to  call  in  the 
morning  and  pay  my  respects — did  so — found  my 
fair  friend  more  charming  than  ever.  Apparently 
she  had  learned  all  about  me,  and  was  full  of  the 
play — and  the  author  I 

"  Wonderful  thing !  would  like  to  write  a  play 
herself,  if  she  knew  how.  Lived  at  Durham,  and 
was  returning  home  to-morrow.  If  I  happened  to 
be  passing  that  way  she  would  be  delighted  to  see 
me  and  introduce  me  to  her  mother,"  etc. 

I  promised  on  my  next  trip  to  the  north  to  break 
the  journey  at  Durham. 

"She  was  going  to  the  Opera  that  night  —  had 
a  box  Lady  E — ,  a  friend  of  the  family,  had  given 
her.  Did  I  like  music  ?  Yes  !  she  was  quite  alone. 
Supposed  the  box  was  big  enough  for  two  ? " 

Of  course,  you  knew,  Her  Majesty's  is  exactly 
opposite  the  Haymarket  ?  As  we  drove  there  that 
night  we  encountered  Peggy's  brougham  with  Peg 
in  it.  Both  women  glared  at  each  other  —  one 
looked  daggers  at  me,  while  the  other  looked  daggers 
at  her. 

Jenny  Lind  was  delightful,  so  was  Lilian,  only 
more  so.  Nice  name  Lilian,  don't  you  think  so  ? 
When  we  got  home  we  discovered  we  had  neither 
of  us  dined,  so  we  made  up  for  it  by  supping 
together  in  the  coffee-room.  How  I  did  enjoy  that 
supper !  and  I  scarcely  knew  which  I  enjoyed  the 
most — the  supper  or  the  company. 

Lilian  was  leaving  in  the  morning,  so  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  visit  brother  Bill  in  his  Highland 
home  at  once,  breaking  the  journey  at  Durham. 
The  run  is  a  long  one  from  King's  Cross,  but 
it  passed  all  too  quickly,  and  I  was  astonished 
when  I  found  we  had  got  to  the  end  of  our 
journey. 

When  we  arrived,  a  stylish  carriage  and  pair 
were  waiting  at  the  station,  and  the  most  inexpres- 
sibly hideous  beast  that  ever  wore  boots  and  breeches 
was  introduced  to  me  as  her  Jicmce. 

Beauty  and  the  Beast  truly ! 

115 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  H'm ! "  thought  I,  "  Hideous  as  he  is,  1  sup- 
pose the  beast  has  brains." 

I  was  mistaken  ;  he  hadn't  an  ounce  ! 

He  had  "  Brass,"  though,  was  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  the  county,  and  one  of  the  most  notoriously 
vicious.  He  had  a  voice,  too — a  voice  that  would 
have  frightened  a  refractory  hyena  into  fits. 

Evidently  it  didn't  frighten  her  ;  she  seemed  used 
to  it.  Another  thing  was  equally  evident,  she  wasn't 
quite  so  cordial  to  me  as  she  had  been  throughout  the 
journey.  Polite  though,  oh  yes !  that's  more,  how- 
ever, than  could  be  said  for  Caliban. 

"  Thanks,  a  thousand  thanks !  Mamma  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you,  if  you'll  call  to-morrow.  Ta- 
ta ;  tea  at  five.     You  know  the  address." 

The  carriage  drove  away,  and  I  was  left  alone  I 

There  is  a  decent  hotel,  where  they  gave  me  a 
decent  dinner,  and  there  is,  or  was  then,  a  decent 
little  theatre,  where  Mr  Paumier,  a  gentleman  of 
family  whom  I  remembered  to  ha\e  seen  play 
Jaffier  at  Covent  Garden,  was  taking  his  benefit 
that  night,  with  "The  Wonder"  and  "The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew"  for  the  progi'amme. 

So  of  course  off  I  went  after  dinner  to  the  theatre. 
The  house  was  pretty  full,  and  I  was  ushered  into 
the  right-hand  stage-box. 

In  the  one  immediately  opposite  sat  Caliban  with 
half-a-dozen  half- drunken,  horsey  idiots,  enjoying 
themselves  to  their  hearts'  content  by  interrupting 
the  play  and  guying  the  players. 

The  heneficiare,  a  tall,  athletic,  soldier-like  fellow, 
didn't  seem  to  appreciate  these  delicate  attentions, 
but  the  angrier  he  became,  the  more  amusing  did 
it  appear  to  my  friends  opposite. 

Things  reached  a  culminating  point  when  Petruchio 
entered  with  his  horsewhip  in  the  wedding  scene. 
At  the  sight  of  his  eccentric  attire  and  the  sound 
of  his  whip,  CaUban  emitted  a  yell  of  derision  which 
might  have  been  heard  a  mile  off. 

It  was  his  last  laugh  that  night ;  for  the  next 
moment   the    infuriated    actor   collared   the   cad   by 

116 


PETRUCHIO   HORSEWHIPS   CALIBAN 

the  scruff  of  the  neck,  swung  him  bodily  on  to  the 
stage,  where  he  horsewhipped  him  Avdthin  an  inch 
of  his  hfe,  to  the  infinite  dehght  of  the  audience, 
who  not  only  applauded  to  the  echo,  but,  when  the 
curtain  fell,  lustily  demanded  an  encore  ! 

Unfortunately  that  laudable  desire  could  not  be 
gratified,  for  Caliban  bolted  as  soon  as  he  got  a 
chance,  and  his  friends  immediately  followed  suit. 

Shall  I  avow  it  ? 

I  verily  believe  I  slept  all  the  sounder  that 
night  from  the  knowledge  that  that  fella  had  tasted 
Mr  Paumier's  horsewhip. 

Next  morning  I  explored  the  beauties  of  Durham. 

A  charming,  old-world  place — lovely  river,  stately 
cathedral,  romantic  ruins,  picturesque  neighbourhood  ! 

In  the  afternoon  I  called  on  Mrs  Smith  (Smith 
was  not  the  name,  but  it  will  serve  ! )  Amiable  old 
invahd,  widow  of  an  Indian  officer  —  evidently  in 
embarrassed  circumstances. 

Noting  the  poverty  of  the  land,  I  understood  at 
once  where  Caliban  "  came  in."  Legalised  prosti- 
tution, though  one  of  the  products  of  our  civilisa- 
tion, never  commends  itself  to  my  admiration.  In 
this  case  it  was  especially  detestable,  so  I  took  my 
leave,  determined  to  go  on  to  brother  Bill  next  day. 
But  I  had  reckoned  without  my  lady. 

An  hour  later  she  came  to  the  hotel.  "  I  see  how 
you  despise  me,"  she  burst  out.  "  Not  so  much  as  I 
despise  myself — but  I — it  is  for  mother's  sake.  The 
marriage — marriage,  did  I  say  ? — the  sacrifice  takes 
place  in  two  months'  time.  Till  then  I'm  my  own 
mistress.  There  is  much  to  see  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  I  have  much  to  say.  Can't  we  be  friends  for  my 
last  holiday  ?  No  concealment,  no  secrecy ;  it  will 
be  open  and  abo^e  board,  and  it  will  be  something 
for  me  to  think  of  in  years  to  come." 

She  was  young  and  beautiful.  I  was  susceptible, 
besides  which,  the  sex  has  always  been  an  interesting 
study  to  me,  and  I — yes — you  may  snigger,  sir,  but 
if  you'd  been  in  my  place  you'd  have  done  exactly 
what  I  did. 

117 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

I  stayed.  We  walked  and  talked,  galloped  over 
the  Leazes,  or  rowed  down  the  river,  occasionally 
meeting  Caliban,  who  scowled  and  growled,  but 
didn't  care,  perhaps  didn't  dare,  to  interfere.  She 
told  me  she'd  had  it  out  with  him. 

Had  I  been  rich  enough,  I  think  I  should  have 
popped  the  question  there  and  then,  but  I  wasn't 
quixotic  enough  to  plunge  her  and  myself  into 
pauperdom.  Then  there  was  the  poor  old  mother 
besides,  so  I  consoled  myself  with  my  darling  Peggy 
—  the  Peggy  of  my  dreams  —  and  I  wrote  "  Peg 
Woffington "  —  the  first  book  I  ever  wrote  —  in 
Durham. 

I  scribbled  in  the  morning,  walked  or  rode  or 
had  a  pull  on  the  Wear  with  my  lady  in  the  after- 
noon. In  the  evening  I  read  "Peg"  to  her  and 
her  mother — the  mother  was  delighted,  but  Lily 
delightful. 

She  said  she  liked  mij  Peggy  better  than  the  Peg 
she  saw  at  the  Haymarket.  So  did  I,  for  this  Peggy 
was  my  own,  my  very  own,  made  of  my  blood,  my 
bones,  my  brains. 

Mrs  "  Smith  "  had  very  few  visitors.  One  gentle- 
man, however,  frequently  dropped  in  for  a  cup  of  tea 
— the  Governor  of  the  jail.  He  had  been  a  brother- 
officer  of  the  Colonel ;  they  had  served  together  in 
India.  We  (the  Governor  and  I)  fraternised ;  he 
took  me  and  Lilian  over  the  jail,  introduced  us  to 
the  chaplain,  who  introduced  us  to  the  thieves,  his 
"patients,"  as  he  called  them.  I  used  to  smuggle 
them  in  a  bit  of  baccy  (beastly  stuff !  but  it  made  the 
poor  beggars  forget  their  trouble),  a  drop  of  gin,  a 
handful  of  nuts,  an  apple  or  two,  and  a  paper, 
Reyjiold's  for  preference. 

The  Governor  and  the  chaplain  knew  all  about 
this,  but  winked  at  it,  while  they  said  :  "  Doctor,  we 
really  must  not  see  this."     And  they  didn't  see  it. 

The  "  patients  "  interested  me  muchly — one  man 
in  particular,  named  Jennins.  This  fella  whom  I  was 
permitted  to  interview  in  his  own  cell,  was  very  con- 
fiding— actually  wrote  his  autobiography  and  gave  it 

118 


ANDROMEDA   AND   THE   MONSTER 

to  me.  I  polished  it  up,  and  gave  it  to  the  world 
afterwards  as  "  The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief" 

One  day,  after  a  prolonged  jaw  with  him, 
my  lady  naively  inquired,  "  Wouldn't  he  make  a 
capital  central  figure  for  a  popular  drama  ? " 

That  was  the  germ  from  which  Tom  Robinson 
was  evolved. 

Our  friend  the  Governor  had  been  a  Govern- 
ment Commissioner  in  Australia  during  the  gold 
discoveries ;  was  at  Ballarat  when  the  riots  and 
bloodshed  took  place,  had  gone  into  the  bush,  knew 
a  lot  about  the  nativ^es,  and  was  never  weary  of 
talking  of  them  and  their  queer  ways. 

Here  again  came  in  the  superior  intelligence  of 
my  lady. 

"  Fine  theme  for  a  drama  of  the  day  !  Australia  ! 
— diggers,  loafers,  riots,  gold  discovery,  natives  !  I 
can  see  it  all ! " 

"  So  can  I,"  I  replied,  and  I  did  see  it,  and  began 
to  churn  the  incidents  up  day  and  night.  Then 
Jacky  began  to  dawn  on  me ! 

At  dusk,  when  the  mater  was  asleep,  Lily  played 
and  sang,  and  did  both  divinely ;  then  my  play  began 
to  slowly  take  shape  and  to  rise,  like  the  walls  of 
Troy,  to  music  ;  and  then — yes,  then  those  happy 
days  were  over,  for  She  had  to  take  up  her  cross, 
and  I — I  could  not  bear  to  see  her  crucifixion  ! 

The  idea  of  abandoning  my  poor  helpless 
Andromeda  to  the  Monster  made  of  money  and 
mud,  who  was  waiting  to  claim  his  victim,  eager 
to  defile  her  innocent  maidenhood  with  his  bestial 
beslobberments,  set  my  blood  afire.  Powerless  to 
protect  or  preserve  her,  the  torture  became  so 
absolutely  unendurable  that  one  night  I  stole  away 
by  midnight  train,  without  the  "good-bye"  I  had 
not  the  heart  to  speak. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  then,  yet  1  never  pass 
by  the  cathedral  in  the  old  northern  city  without  a 
pang  which  wrings  my  heart.  Doubtless  you  think 
that,  by  that  time  I  ought  to  have  left  such  weak- 
nesses and  such  follies  behind  me. 

119 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

I  daresay  I  ought ;  but  then,  you  see,  I  didn't. 

Some  people  are  born  susceptible  and  sympathetic 
idiots.  I'm  one  of  them,  and  I  know  it.  I  make  up 
my  mind  I'll  never  be  so  foolish  again,  and  I  never 
am — until  the  next  time — and  then  God  help  my 
good  intentions,  for  they  invariably  vanish  to  the 
place  for  which  they  ultimately  become  paving-stones. 

You've  drawn  this  yarn  out  of  me  by  your  per- 
sistent inquiries  about  the  genesis  of  "Never  too  late 
to  mend."  I  told  you  just  now  it  originated  with  a 
woman,  and,  as  I'll  show  you  by-and-by,  it  ended 
with  one. 

Ah,  well,  well  1 

"  Green  gi'ow  the  rashes  O ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent 
Were  spent  among  the  lasses  O  ! " 

When  I  got  back  to  town  I  succeeded  in  induc- 
ing Bentley  to  publish  "  Peg  Woffington,"  and,  upon 
great  persuasion,  he  consented  to  give  me  £30  for  the 
copyright.     Yes  !  I  sold  my  darling  for  £30  1 !  1 

Then  I  went  to  Arundel  Street,  where  I  met  with 
a  freezing  reception. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  this 
time  ?  "  severely  inquired  Peggy. 

"  AVriting  a  novel  about  you,  and  creating  a  great 
play  besides." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  And  what  have  you  done  with 
that  hussy  ? " 

"  What  hussy  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  know  well  enough.  That  gawky  six- 
footer — the  grenadier  in  petticoats  ! " 

"  If  you'll  be  a  little  more  explicit  I'll  endeavour 
to  answer  you." 

"  Very  well,  then ;  I'm  referring  to  the  huge, 
freckled,  red-headed  creature  you  had  the  cheek  to 
bring  behind  the  scenes,  and  whom  I  saw  you  take 
to  the  Opera  the  very  next  night !  Yes,  saw  you, 
sir  !     What  have  you  done  with  the  jade  ? " 

"  She's  married  and  settled." 

"  O— o— h  ! " 

"  Now  may  I  stay  to  lunch  ?  " 

120 


CHARLES    KEAN   AND    ISAAC   LEVI 

"  Yes,  if  you'll  behave  yourself.  That'll  do,  sir  I 
—that'll  do,  I  tell  you  ! " 

After  lunch  we  buried  the  hatchet,  and  arranged 
to  go  down  to  Richmond  on  the  Sunday  after,  with 
Webster  and  Taylor,  and  dine  at  the  Star  and 
Garter ;  where,  by-the-by,  Taylor  and  I  arranged  to 
collaborate  in  a  new  play  for  the  Adelphi,  which 
Webster  promised  to  consider. 

A  few  days  after  I  went  over  to  Paris  (I  really 
forget  what  for !),  and  the  very  first  thing  that  caught 
my  eye  on  the  boulevards  was  the  announcement  of 
a  new  drama,  called  "  Les  Chercheurs  d'Or,"  which 
I  went  to  see  that  very  night.  It  was  founded  upon 
life  at  the  Australian  goldfields  1 

Here  was  a  surprise !  Anticipated  in  my  great 
work — in  Paris  I  Doubtless  some  thief  would  come 
OY^er,  prig  the  piece,  and  produce  it  in  London  before 
I  could  get  mine  done. 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  So  back 
I  went  to  Oxford,  there  and  then,  shut  myself  up 
in  my  rooms,  pegged  away  day  and  night,  night 
and  day,  until  I  had  written  "  Gold  I " 

Where  to  get  it  done  was  the  next  question  ?  To 
propose  it  to  Webster  for  the  Adelphi  would  be  to 
imperil  the  piece  which  he  had  already  promised  to 
consider,  besides  which,  it  would  be  leaving  Taylor 
in  the  cold. 

In  the  emergency,  by  an  inspiration,  Charles  Kean 
occurred  to  me  for  a  part — the  Jew,  Isaac  Levi. 
His  Shylock  was  a  great  performance,  and  his  Levi 
would  have  dominated  the  play. 

He  had  recently  taken  the  Princess's  with  the 
Keeleys.  They  were  not  high  and  dry  classics,  they 
had  done  "  Pauline,"  and  I  had  an  insane  idea  they 
might  look  at  "  Gold." 

Accordingly  I  wrote  Kean,  suggesting  that  I  had 
"  a  new  Shylock  for  him,"  and  he  repUed  by  inviting 
me  to  come  up  and  read  my  play. 

1  responded  with  alacrity. 

He  and  Mrs   Kean,  the  Keeleys,  and    Mr  Cole 

121 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

(formerly  Calcraft,  manager  of  the  Dublin  Theatre) 
had  assembled  in  solenm  conclave  in  the  green- 
room, to  hear  and  sit  in  judgment  on  my  poor  play. 

I  read  them  one  act.     It  was  a  settler ! 

Kean  was  very  nice  about  it,  but  Keeley  was  nasty. 

"  So  this  old  clo'  man's  your  new  Shylock,  is  he  ? 
I  should  say  Shylot,'^  he  burst  out.  "  And  where  do 
I  come  in  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  impatiently  interjected  Mrs  Keeley  ;  "  and 
what  price  me  and  Missis  Kean,  I'd  like  to  know,  eh, 
Bob  ? " 

"  Oh,  ask  me  another !  '  responded  the  indignant 
Robert.  "  I've  had  enougli  of  your  precious  piece 
— enough  and  to  spare  !  So  take  it  off  to  the  Surrey, 
or  the  Vick,  or  the  Sour  Balloon — I  mean  the  Bower 
Saloon,  sir ! " 

Kean,  however,  let  me  down  gently :  said  the  idea 
was  original,  the  piece  a  strong  one,  but  not  adapted 
to  the  cult  of  the  theatre,  better  try  Drury  I^ane. 

As  a  solatium  to  my  wounded  feelings,  he 
invited  me  to  an  early  dinner  in  Torrington  Square. 

A  nice  cosy  meal :  a  broiled  sole,  a  forequarter 
of  lamb,  peas,  and  mint-sauce,  a  salad,  a  gooseberry 
tart,  and  a  bottle  of  Perrier  Jouet.  After  dinner, 
they  left  me  for  forty  winks,  and  recommended  me 
to  adjourn  to  the  sofa,  which  (although  an  unusual 
thing  for  me  at  that  time  ! )  I  did,  and  lost  all  count 
of  time,  until  the  maid  (an  uncommonly  pretty  girl 
by-the-by ! )  came  and  shook  me  up,  and  gave  me  a 
delicious  cup  of  coffee. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  she,  "  Mrs  Kean  said  she 
thought  you'd  like  a  wash  and  brush-up.  I  was  to 
show  you  to  Mr  Kean's  room.  This  way,  sir  ;  and  oh, 
sir,  the  bro'om's  at  the  door,  and  I\Ir  Kean's  box  is 
reserved  for  you." 

It  was  with  little  delicate  courtesies  like  this  that 
Kean  endeared  himself  to  everyone. 

The  play  was  my  old  favourite,  in  which  I  had 
seen  Mademoiselle  INIars  on  my  first  visit  to  Paris. 
It  was  now  called  the  "  Duke's  Wager,"  was  capitally 
acted,  and  superbly  mounted. 

122 


BEAUTY   SACRIFICED   TO   THE   BEAST 

Kean's  kindness  didn't  end  here,  for  he  sent  to 
the  Hummums  for  my  portmanteau  and  tiled  me 
up  for  the  night — that  is  to  say,  for  the  morning ; 
for,  as  you  know,  he  is  a  dehghtful  raconteur ^  and  he 
regaled  me  with  all  kinds  of  romantic  reminiscences 
of  his  father,  and  interesting  stories  of  his  own  early 
struggles. 

When  he  and  IMrs  Kean  bade  me  good-bye  in  the 
morning,  he  said  :  "  Don't  be  disheartened  !  Though 
"Gold"  doesn't  suit  me,  by-and-by  you  may  have 
something  that  will,  and  we  shall  always  be  glad  to  see 
or  hear  from  you.     So  good-bye,  and  good  luck  ! " 

Even  this  geniality  did  not  remove  my  depres- 
sion, for  it  was  quite  evident  "  Gold "  was  a  drug 
in  the  market. 

As  for  the  Surrey,  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of, 
and  I  knew  no  one  at  Drury  Lane  which  was  now 
under  the  management  of  a  new  man  with  the 
unusual  name  of — Smith  ! 

On  strolling  round  that  evening  to  the  Garrick  to 
inquire  for  Taylor,  the  porter  gave  me  a  letter  which 
bore  the  Durham  post  mark. 

'*  Lying  here  a  month,  sir,"  said  he. 

Tearing  it  open,  I  read — 

*'  Lily  and  I  were  spliced  to-day,  and  be  d- 


to  you  !  "  You  Know  Whom." 

Yes,  I  did  know  too  well !  Could  I  only  have 
had  the  Beast  before  me  at  that  moment  at  the  end 
of  a  horsewhip,  Paumier's  flagellation  would  have 
been  a  fleabite  to  mine ! 

When  we  are  approaching  our  meridian,  time 
passes  but  too  quickly,  and  I  could  scarce  realise 
that  two  whole  years  and  more  had  elapsed,  when 
lo  I  a  letter  in  a  well-known  hand  reached  me  from 
shipboard  at  Liverpool.  I  know  it  by  heart ;  it 
runs  thus,  or  very  like  it : 

"  I  have  just  read  '  Christie  Johnstone,'  and  am 
taking  her  with  me  across  the  sea. 

123 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  The  reader  unacquainted  with  the  author  would 
doubtless  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  he  knew  all 
about  a  woman's  heart.  The  reader  would  be  mis- 
taken. 

"  Had  the  author  possessed  the  slightest  know- 
ledge of  the  subject,  he  would  have  known  that,  on 
that  last  night  in  Durham,  had  he  held  up  his  little 
finger,  the  girl  at  his  side  would  have  leaped  into 
his  arms.  But  he  left  her,  left  her  without  even  a 
'good-bye,'  abandoned  her  to  misery  and  shame,  to 
horrible  defilement,  unutterable  anguish,  and  hopeless 
despair ! 

"  It  is  all  over  now,  for  poor  mother  has  reached 
the  end  of  her  journey,  and — /  am  free  ! 

"  Thank  God !  I  have  found  someone  manly 
enough  to  brave  the  world  for  me  ! 

"  To  be  sure,  He  is  not  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen, 
but  He  is  a  Man — a  Man  who  has  sacrificed  every- 
thing for  tlie  sake  of  tlie  woman  he  loves.  To-day 
we  go  forth  together  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  in  the 
New  World. 

*'  If  we  succeed  (as  succeed  we  shall)  you'll  hear 
of  me ;  and  then,  perchance,  you'll  say :  '  And  once 
that  girl  loved  me  ! ' 

"  I  send  you  a  good-bye  and  a  kiss — which  you 
don't  deserve — but,  alas !  we  don't  love  you  bar- 
barous creatures  because  you  deserve  to  be  loved — 
but  just  because  we  love  you — and  so,  here's  another, 
and  yet  another.  And  now — O  lost  love  of  mine — 
good-bye  forever ! " 

Later  I  learnt  that  the  poor  soul  had  borne  her 
cross  with  fortitude  and  dignity,  till  the  mother  for 
whose  sake  she  had  sold  herself  to  this  shameful 
bondage  died.  Then  the  bruised  and  broken  flower 
rebelled,  and,  God  help  her !  bolted  with  the  curate 
to  America. 

It  appears  both  had  dramatic  proclivities  which 
drew  them  together,  and,  while  Caliban  was 
engrossed  in  horse  -  racing,  cock-fighting,  and  other 
swinish  Tony  Lumpkin   accomplishments,  they  de- 

124 


O    LOST   LOVE   OF   MINE! 

voted  themselves  to  amateur  play-acting,  in  which 
they  distinguished  themselves  highly. 

Obviously,  they  must  have  had  exceptional 
ability,  for,  despite  their  limited  experence,  our  friend 
Howse  (you  remember  him  ? )  told  me  they  took  the 
States  by  storm  in —what  do  you  think  ? — in  "  Masks 
and  Faces." 

In  a  few  years  they  acquired  both  fame  and 
fortune,  and,  while  yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  retired 
with  their  children  (half-a-dozen  of  them)  to  enjoy 
the  otium  cum  dig  at  their  ranche  in  California. 
Every  season  she  sends  me,  per  refrigerator,  cases 
of  peaches,  pears,  apples  and  apricots,  and  an  occa- 
sional brace  or  two  of  canvas-back  ducks,  and 
other  transatlantic  delicacies,  so,  I  suppose,  the 
sweet  soul  has  forgiven  me  for  not  "  holding  up 
my  little  finger." 

In  retmn,  I  send  her  all  my  books  as  soon  as 
they  are  published,  though,  cut  re  nous,  I  confess  I 
would  rather  have  been  the  author  of  those  half- 
dozen  stiu-dy  olive  branches  (she  has  sent  me  their 
photos  ! )  than  of  all  the  books  in  the  universe. 

{''And  Caliban V) 

Oh,  of  course  his  injured  honour  was  avenged  ! 

He  obtained   a  decree   nisi,  and   afterwards   married 

four    other    wives.        Yes,    sir,  four!      The    beast 

bullied  and  badgered  and  buried  them  all  before  he 

"sent  in  his  checks." 

Women  arc  kittle  cattle !  A^Hien  good  they  are 
angels,  when  bad  they  are — h'm  !  never  mind  ! 

If  a  satyr  has  only  enough  shekels,  some  of  them 
can  always  be  found  to  take  up  with  the  brute,  hoofs, 
horns,  tail,  and  all ! " 


125 


CHAPTER    IX 

ASPASIA 

At  the  Academy — An  old  Friend — The  Garrick — The  Haymarket 
and  Evans — Paddy  Green — Thackeray  —  Charles  Dickens  — 
Forster  and  Talford  —  Return  of  Aspasia — An  Introduction 
and  an  Interview — "Christie  Johnstone"  once  more — The 
Coup-de-grace  to  poor  Christie  —  A  Letter  and  a  fateful 
Five-Pound  Note  —  Making  a  Fire,  and  what  came  of  it  — 
Jermyn  Street  and  its  Occupants  —  Aspasia  and  the  Trinity 
— The  Author  joins  them 

*•  Let  me  see,  where  did  we  leave  off  last  night  ? 

(  "  I?i  California:' ) 

Ah  !  that  was  two  years  after  She  bolted  from 
Durham.     Let  me  take  matters  sequentially. 

The  day  after  the  Keans  rejected  "  Gold,"  1 
called  at  the  Strand,  to  consult  the  gentle  James, 
thinking  he  might  know  someone  to  introduce  me 
to  the  new  manager  of  Drury  I^ane.  Jimmy  was, 
however,  not  to  be  seen,  so  I  made  my  way  to 
Piccadilly  to  have  a  look  at  the  pictures. 

There  was  nothing,  however,  particularly  worth 
seeing,  so  I  turned  out  and  strolled  up  the  Burling- 
ton Arcade,  when  by  a  lucky  accident  I  came  plump 
et  poitix  against  my  old  friend  ^lorris,  who  had 
just  returned  from  a  voyage  round  the  world.  We 
fraternised,  as  of  old,  and  I  took  him  to  dine  at 
the  Garrick.  Then,  wishing  to  impress  him  with  my 
newly-attained  glory,  1  took  him  to  his  father's  old 
house  (The  Haymarket)  to  see  '*  Masks  and  Faces." 
The  theatre  was  packed,  everything  went  like  a  park 
of  artillery,  and  my  friend  was  dazzled  and  delighted. 

After  the  play  we  went  to  Evans',  where  he 
(Morris)  introduced  me  to  Paddy  Green,  who  pointed 
out  to  us  a  great,  hulking  fellow,  with  spectacles  and 

126 


O  THE  DAYS  AND  NIGHTS  IN  EGYPT  I 

grey  hair,  and  a  broken  nose,  and  told  us  it  was 
Thackeray ;  and  a  debonnair,  fairish-looking  little 
chap,  with  whiskers  and  long  hair,  a  crimson  velvet 
vest  and  a  floridly  embroidered  shirt-front,  and  told 
us  it  was  the  immortal  "Boz"  himself;  and  that 
the  two  other  gentlemen  who  bore  him  company 
were  Mr  Justice  Talford,  and  Mr  John  Forster, 
editor  of  the  Examiner. 

Morris,  who  knew  his  way  about,  ordered  chops 
and  baked  potatoes  and  liquid  refreshment,  and  while 
we  fell  to,  a  choir  of  boys  with  angelic  voices  gave  us  : 

"  The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends 
Renewing  is  of  love." 

Presently  we  began  to  compare  notes  about  our 
first  acquaintance  at  the  Haymarket,  in  the  long 
ago,  and  my  thoughts  instinctively  reverted  to  La 
Belle  Aspasia,  in  "  The  Bridal,"  and  her  mysterious 
disappearance. 

"  Nothing  mysterious  about  it,  old  fella.  She's 
been  in  America,"  replied  Morris. 

"  Indeed  !  ' 

"  Yaas !  Met  her  in  New  Orleans.  In  splendid 
form  1  Knocked  'em.  JNIade  her  pile  !  Turned  the 
heads  of  half  the  youngsters  in  the  States.  Might 
have  thrown  the  handkerchief  where  she  liked,  if 
she  hadn't  had  the  misfortune  to  be  spliced  to  that 
downy  old  card  Seymour ! " 

"  Married  ! "  I  said.     "  Married  ! " 

"  Didn't  you  know  that  ?  I  thought  everyone 
knew  it.  JNIarriage  of  convenience.  Hard  up  !  Out 
of  an  engagement.  Old  rooster  had  'a  bit,'  stalled 
himself  off  for  a  man  of  fortune — old  story.  Guess 
she  has  to  keep  him  now." 

The  news  took  my  breath  away. 

"  Still  in  America  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  Oh,  no  !     Back  here  these  three  months." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"Yaas;  trying  to  get  an  engagement,  but  crowded 
out !  Saw  her  the  other  day.  Looking  for  a  shop 
or  a  new  play  to  take  into  the  country." 

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LOOKING   BACKWARD 

•'  I've  got  the  very  play  to  suit  her." 

"No!" 

"  Yes  !     Give  me  an  introduction." 

"  Certainly.  Here's  my  card.  I'll  send  my  man 
round  and  make  an  appointment  for  you  to  see  her 
at  five  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon.  Hello !  there's 
'  God  save  the  Queen ! '  and  we  must  clear  out. 
Come  along, — good-night,  old  man  !  " 

"  Hold  hard  !  Where  am  I  to  find  Aspasia — 
I  mean,  INIrs  Seymour?" 

*'  No.  13  Jermyn  Street.     So  long — so  long  !  " 
Ridiculous  as  it  may  appear,  I  couldn't  sleep  all 
night. 

Fifteen  years  ago !  and  yet  it  seemed  but  yester- 
day that  I  saw  her  at  the  Haymarket  (the  very 
theatre  at  which  my  play  was  then  being  acted) 
as  Aspasia ;  and  now  married — yes,  married  to  an 
"  old  rooster  !  " 

Punctually  as  the  clock  struck  five  I  was 
at  the  door  of  No.  13  Jermyn  Street  with  my 
dearly  -  beloved  *'  Christie  Johnstone "  under  my 
arm. 

I  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room  and  received 
very  courteously  by  my  divinity,  who  appeared 
none  the  worse  for  fifteen  years'  wear.  A  little 
plumper,  it  is  true,  but  not  too  much.  "  'Twould 
have  spoiled  a  charm  to  pare." 

"  My  friend  Morris  says  you  have  a  play  which  v 
would  suit  me,"  said  she. 

"  I  think  I  have." 

"  H'm  !     Ever  seen  me  act  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  I  saw  you  play  Aspasia  at  the  Haymarket 
in  '  The  Bridal,'  with  Macready." 

"  That  was  half-a-century  ago,  and  must  have 
been  my  grandmother ! "  she  laughed. 

"No,"  I  replied  seriously,  "it  was  yourself." 

"  ReaUy  ? " 

"  Yes,  really." 

"  What  did  I  wear  ? " 

"  White  samite,  embroidered  with  blue  and 
gold,    hanging    sleeves,    shoes   of   gold   with    three 

128 


ASPASIA   REDIVIVUS! 

straps   over   the    instep,   the   daintest    pair   of    feet, 
and  the  most  beautiful  pair  of " 

"  Thank  you,  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  into 
details.  Besides,  I've  heard  it  all  before.  But 
you've  a  good  memory !  The  idea  of  remember- 
ing all  this  time  that  my — ahem  ! " 

"  Remember !  I  shall  never  forget  them  !  Then 
there  was  your  hair " 

"  Oh,  I've  got  that  still — at  least  a  lot  of  it — but 
Aspasia  ?  Ah,  my  Aspasia  days  are  over  !  I  want 
something  more  prosaic  and  less  romantic." 

"  This  play  is  not  prosaic,  but  it  is  romantic." 

"  H'm  !     Have  you  ever  done  a  play  before  ?  " 

"A  great  many,  but  I've  only  had  two  acted." 

"  Where  ? " 

"  One  at  the  Olympic ;  the  other  is  being  acted 
at  the  Haymarket  now  !  " 

"  Indeed  !     What's  it  called  ?  " 

" '  Masks  and  Faces,'  —  I  thought  everybody 
knew  that." 

"  Never  heard  of  it ! " 

(And  this  is  fame  !) 

"  And  who  plays  the  leading  part,  7ny  part  ? " 

"  Mrs  StirHng." 

"  What !   that  great  fat  thing  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  really " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  her.  Come  to  the  point  and 
let's  hear  the  play." 

Thus  reassured,  I  commenced  and  read  it  to  the 
best  of  my  ability.  When  I  had  finished  the  first 
Act,  she  broke  silence  with :  "  Good,  very  good 
indeed  for  a  story.     'Twould  make  a  capital  novel ! " 

I  stayed  to  hear  no  more.  Snatching  up  my 
hat  and  my  MS.  I  darted  out  of  the  room  without 
even  a  good-day. 

So !  Here  was  "  another  check  to  proud  ambi- 
tion." I  thought  all  the  world  alive  with  the  fame 
of  "  Masks  and  Faces,"  and  this  barbarous  creature 
had  never  heard  of  it — never  even  heard  of  me. 

Next  morning  brought  me  a  note  from  Morris 
to  this  effect : 

I  129 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"Albany,  Thursday. 

"  My  dear  Reade, — La  belle  Laura  "  (confound 
his  impudence !  How  dare  he  call  her  Laura  ?) 
"has  asked  me  to  forward  the  enclosed.  She  says 
you  are  eccentric,  and  I  think  so  too. — Yours  always, 

"A.  M." 


The  enclosure  was  directed  to  me  in  a  large, 
sprawling  hand.  As  I  tore  it  open  a  five-pound 
note  fluttered  out  and  fell  to  the  floor.  I  know 
that  letter  by  heart  too — I've  got  it  now.  It  was 
to  this  effect: 

"13  Jermyn  Street,  Wednesday  evening. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  fear  I  must  have  offended  you 
to-day.  I  beg  you  to  believe  I  had  no  intention 
to  do  so. 

"  I  was  under  the  impression  that  you  wanted 
to  dispose  of  your  play,  and,  as  I  really  thought  it 
better  adapted  for  a  novel,  I  ventured  to  make 
the  suggestion. 

"  As  unfortunately  I  cannot  produce  your 
charming  work,  I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to 
place  the  enclosed  at  your  disposal  as  some  slight 
acknowledgment  of  the  pleasure  derived  from  your 
admirable  reading. — Yours  faithfully, 

"  Laura  Seymour." 

I  didn't  know  whether  to  be  annoyed  or  de- 
lighted. 

I  !  —  who  had  been  Vice-President  of  Maudlen. 
I ! — who  flattered  myself  I  was  coming  to  the  fore 
as  a  dramatist — to  have  a  five-pound  note  flung  at 
my  head,  like  a  ticket  for  soup  to  a  pauper,  or  a 
bone  to  a  dog,  and  by  an  actress  too !  Yet  she 
said  my  reading  was  admirable,  and,  after  all, 
there  is  much  virtue  in  a  five-pound  note.  Any- 
how it  showed  the  writer  had  a  good  heart. 

130 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE'S   DOUBLE 

Of  course  I  made  up  my  mind  to  return  it 
immediately — but  how  ?  by  the  post  or  by 

Thinking  the  matter  over  as  I  strolled  through 
Covent  Garden,  a  magnificent  bunch  of  grapes  at 
Solomon's  caught  my  fancy  (you  know  how  fond  I 
am  of  fruit ! ),  so  I  secured  it,  and  made  tracks  for 
Jermyn  Street.  I  knocked  at  the  door,  but  got  no 
answer.  Knocked  again, — still  no  answer.  I  was 
turning  away  impatiently  when  the  door  opened 
cautiously  on  the  chain.  A  saucy  face  peeped  from 
inside,  I  peeped  from  without.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking those  eyes.  The  chain  was  withdrawn  and 
the  door  slowly  opened. 

A  lock  of  her  beautiful  hair  escaped  from  a  lace 
handkerchief  which  was  thrown  carelessly  over  her 
head  and  tied  under  her  chin.  Strangely  enough 
(since  she  had  sealed  the  fate  of  my  poor  Christie),  she 
was  made  up  for  Christie  Johnstone — a  striped  pink 
kirtle,  and  a  short  striped  scarlet  and  green  petticoat, 
with  grey  silk  hose  and  crimson  clocks.  They — I 
don't  mean  the  hose,  but  the  beautiful  and  bountiful 
—  ahem ! — were  there,  symmetrical  as  ever,  while 
the  arms  (the  sleeves  were  tucked  up),  the  shoulders 
and  the  neck,  if  a  trifle  more  buxom,  were  bonnier 
than  ever. 

She  held  a  hearth  -  broom  in  one  hand  and  a 
dust-pan  in  the  other. 

As  we  looked  at  each  other,  she  burst  out  laugh- 
ing— then  I  laughed,  then  we  both  laughed  together. 

"  So  it's  you,  sir  I "  she  said. 

*'  Yes,  madam,  'tis  I  myself  and  nobody  else." 

*'  And  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 

*'  This  ! "  said  I,  handing  over  the  five-pound  note. 

"  You  won't  have  it  then  ? " 

"  Thanks  !  not  at  present." 

"  O-oh  !  Ahem  I  And  what  have  you  got  there, 
pray?" 

"  A  peace-ofFering,"  said  I,  presenting  my  grapes. 

"  What,  grapes  !  For  me  ?  Oh,  num-num  I  I 
was  dying  for  some.     Come  in  I  come  in  ! " 

So    saying,  she    led    the  way  into    the    parlour, 

131 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

flopped  down  on  the  hearthrug,  and  began  to  devour 
my  peace-ofFering  there  and  then. 

"  Halves  !  "  said  she,  "  the  httle  devil's  share  ! "  ^ 

The  grapes  disappeared  with  remarkable  rapidity. 

"  Now  help  me  light  the  fire.  It's  our  slavey's  day 
out,  and  I  have  to  get  the  dinner  ready." 

I  set  to  with  a  will,  but  made  rather  a  mess  of  it. 
We  got  lots  of  fun,  however,  out  of  my  bungling. 
INIore  than  that,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  this  identical 
incident  suggested  that  rattling  comedy  scene  (which 
she  played  to  such  perfection  afterwards)  between 
Nell  Gwyn  and  Charles  the  Second  in  "  The  King's 
Rival." 

By  the  time  we  had  finished,  she  had  pumped  me 
dry  as  hay,  and  knew  as  much  as  you  do  about  my 
birth,  parentage,  and  education. 

When  the  fire  was  in  full  blast,  she  said,  "  Now 
off  with  you  to  Covent  Garden,  and  bring  me 
another  bunch  of  grapes  exactly  like  the  first.  Then 
away  you  go  home,  slip  on  a  dress  coat,  and  by  the 
time  you  get  back  dinner  will  be  ready." 

"And  I  shall  be  ready  for  dinner,"  I  replied,  as 
off  I  bowled  to  Covent  Garden. 

When  I  returned,  my  lady  had  doffed  her  des- 
habille, and  was  transformed  into  a  Duchess.  Dinner 
was  on  the  table,  and  there  were  three  gentlemen 
waiting  for  it. 

"  Permit  me,"  she  said,  "  to  introduce  my  family. 
Ahem !  Mr  Seymour,  my  husband,  and  my  friends 
Captain  Curling  and  Augustus  Braham.  Gentlemen, 
Mr  Charles  Reade,  D.C.L.,  A,  double  S,  and  a  lot  of 
other  things  in  the  University  of  Oxford." 

This  unceremonious  introduction  put  us  at  our 
ease  at  once,  and  we  all  laughed  consumedly. 

While  dinner  was  being  served,  I  had  time  to 
take  stock  of  my  companions.  M.  le  Mari  was  an 
elderly,  handsome  man,  of  middle  height,  evidently 
of  the  great  historic  race  ;  Curling,  a  dapper  little 

*  "The  Little  Devil/'  a  popular  comedy  of  the  period,  taken 
from  the  French. 

132 


QUARTETTE   CHANGED   TO   QUINTETTE 

military  swell ;  while  Braham,  son  of  the  Braham, 
was  a  gi'eat,  strapping,  black-bearded  Basso  Pro- 
fundo,  with  pronounced  Semitic  features. 

The  dinner  came  in  from  the  hotel  next  door,  and 
was  served  by  a  smart  little  Frenchman. 

Never  was  there  a  more  delightful  repast,  nor  a 
more  delightful  dinner-party. 

"  Don't  imagine,  Mr  Vice-President,"  said  our 
hostess,  "that  we  always  indulge  in  this  reckless 
extravagance.  Chops  and  tomato  sauce,  a  sole,  or  a 
salmon  cutlet,  an  omelette  or  a  macaroni  cheese,  and 
a  bottle  of  vin  ordinaire  usually  suffices  for  our 
modest  menu.  This  sumptuous  repast  has  been 
improvised  to  do  honour  to  your  first  visit." 

Then  they  drank  my  health,  and  I  drank  theirs. 

Time  flew  all  too  quickly,  and  when  I  had  to  go 
it  was  quite  a  wrench  to  tear  myself  away,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  all  our 
Hves. 

Thus  commenced  an  acquaintance  which  was 
destined  to  form  a  turning-point  in  my  career.  In 
a  week's  time  I  became  a  member  of  that  happy 
family,  and  to  this  day  I  bless  the  hour  which  led  me 
to  Jermyn  Street,  for  there  I  found  the  wisest 
counsellor,  the  truest  friend,  that  ever  crossed  my 
path  in  life." 


133 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  TRINITY 

Life  at  the  Bungalow — Breakfast  and  after — A  musical  Party — 
The  Brahams  —  A  Slave  of  the  Lamp  in  Account  with 
Literature  —  Result  of  Eighteen  Years'  Labour  —  The 
Garrick — Bow  Street  and  Covent  Garden  Market  —  Whist 
and  what  came  of  it — Aspasia  speaks  her  Mind — She  reads 
a  Book  and  spoils  the  Dinner  —  Moli^re's  Housekeeper 
redivivus — ^The  Doctor  turns  over  a  new  Leaf  and  gives 
"  Christie  Johnstone  "  a  local  habitation  as  well  as  a  Name — 
The  Yankee  Pirates  steal  the  poor  Dear  and  coin  Thousands, 
while  the  Author  does  not  get  a  Cent — "  Gold  " — Still  on 
the  Shelf — When  an  unexpected  Opening  occurs  at  Drury 
Lane 

"  Curling  christened  our  diggin's  the  Bungalow, 
and  the  Bungalow  it  remained  until  we  left  there. 
We  divided  the  household  expenses  between  the 
four  of  us — viz.  Seymour,  Curling,  Braham,  and 
myself.  The  Duchess  (so  I  christened  her)  was 
free  from  all  financial  responsibility,  but  she  was 
housekeeper  and  general  superintendent,  Queen  of 
everything  and  everybody. 

The  only  stipulation  I  made,  was  for  a  den  to 
myself,  for  a  study,  and  she  allotted  me  an  attic. 

We  all  breakfasted  and  dined  together.  For  the 
rest,  'twas  Liberty  Hall.  From  breakfast  to  dinner 
we  rarely  or  ever  met. 

"  The  Holy  Trinity,"  as  the  Duchess  somewhat 
irreverently  termed  my  three  friends,  were  really 
men  about  town.  They  went  their  own  way  and  1 
went  mine,  which  always  led  straight  from  the 
breakfast-table  to  the  ink-pot  in  the  attic. 

For  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  I  had,  in  somewhat 

134 


IN   ACCOUNT   WITH   LITERATURE 

erratic  fashion,  been  engaged  in  stuffing  my  head 
with  facts,  so  as  to  have  them  handy  in  case  of  need. 
As  yet  they  had  been  of  Httle  use.  I  had  never 
written  a  book  till  I  was  five-and-thirty;  and,  after  all 
these  years,  the  mountain  had  brought  forth  a  mouse 
— and  only  a  very  little  one. 

On  taking  up  my  abode  at  the  Bungalow,  I  re- 
solved to  start  fair,  and  this  was  how  I  found  myself 
in  account  with  literature  in  the  year  of  grace  1851. 

Item,  My  family  had  brought  me  up,  and  educated 
me,  till  I  was  sixteen. 

Item,  I  earned  my  demyship,  eighty  pounds  a 
year,  at  seventeen. 

Item,  At  one-and-twenty  I  obtained  my  fellow- 
ship, beginning  at  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
per  annum,  and  ultimately  rising  to  six  hundred  and 
fifty. 

Item,  Eighteen  years  devoted  to  the  study  of 
dramatic  art. 

Now  let  us  see  what  I  had  gained  for  this  outlay. 

Item,  "  Ladies'  Battle,"  7iil. 

Item,  *' Masks  and  Faces,"  half  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  :  seventy-five  pounds. 

Item,  From  Bentley  for  book  of  "  Peg 
Woffington,"  thirty  pounds. 

In  all,  one  hundred  and  five  pounds.  That  is  to 
say,  about  half-a- crown  a  week  for  eighteen  years — 
not  enough  to  pay  for  pens,  ink  and  paper,  leaving 
copying  and  shoe-leather  out  of  the  question. 

Good  God  !  had  it  not  been  for  the  fellowship, — 
which,  though  it  bound  me  to  celibacy,  preserved  me 
from  pauperdom — and  a  mother's  generous  help,  I 
must  have  been  in  the  workhouse,  or  breaking  stones 
on  the  highway. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Sir  Walter  to  say, 
"  Literature  is  a  good  crutch  but  a  bad  staff."  Up  to 
this  time  it  had  been  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  to 
me,  but  simply  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit. 

My  poor  play  of  "  Gold  "  was  lying  dormant,  and 
no  one  would  even  look  at  it ! 

135 


LOOKING    BACKWARD 

To  make  matters  worse  I  had  fondly  lioped  that 
Taylor  and  I,  between  us,  might  have  inaugurated 
a  new  era  at  the  Adelphi,  with  "  Two  Loves  and 
a  Life,"  and  lo !  through  a  stupid  matter  of  temper, 
we  were  at  daggers  drawn,  not  even  on  speaking 
terms  I  He  thought  /  was  a  difficult  fellow  to  get 
on  with,  and  I  knew  he  was. 

Man  is  a  gregarious  animal,  and  I  am  inore 
gregarious  than  most  men.  At  home,  no  one  had 
the  slightest  sympathy  with  my  artistic  aspirations. 
Mother's  idee  fixe  was  to  make  me  a  Bishop,  and  one 
of  Calvinistic  proclivities,  which  I  can't  abide — never 
could !  My  people  all  hated  the  theatre.  Poor 
souls !    they  were  born  so,  and  knew  no  better ! 

JNIaudlen  was  a  nest  of  scorpions.  To  be  sure, 
Routh,  MacBride,  EUerslie,  and  Bernard  Smith 
were  all  friendly  to  me,  but  averse  from  my  tastes 
and  pursuits. 

I  induced  them,  once,  to  hear  a  Roman  play  of 
mine,  read  'em  all  to  sleep,  went  back  to  my  rooms, 
and  put  poor  "  Caligula"  on  the  fire. 

The  truth  was  I  had  not  a  single  human  being 
on  whom  I  could  rely  for  advice  or  assistance. 

At  this  critical  period  help  came  to  me  from  an 
unexpected  quarter. 

1  was  wont  to  scribble,  in  my  shirt-sleeves,  daily 
from  ten  to  two,  then  shave,  dress,  and  turn  out  into 
Piccadilly,  over  Leicester  Square,  across  St  Martin's 
Lane,  and  through  Garrick  Street  to  the  Club. 

In  the  summer,  after  skimming  the  papers,  I 
invariably  strolled  down  Bow  Street  to  take  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  players  and  play-actresses  who, 
at  that  time,  usually  congregated  there  in  crowds, 
laughing  and  talking,  and  recounting  their  peaceful 
triumphs,  as  if  there  was  not  an  aching  heart  among 
the  crowd. 

How  I  used  to  envy  the  happy  beggars !  Poor 
souls !  when  I  got  to  know  'em  better,  I  found,  not 
only  aching  hearts,  but  empty  bellies,  in  abundance, 
amongst  them. 

After  Bow  Street  came  Covent  Garden,  to  invest 

136 


THE   MELODIOUS   BRAHAMS 

in  fruit  or  flowers  (sometimes  both)  for  the  Duchess. 
Then,  down  the  Strand  and  over  Trafalgar  Square, 
the  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall,  up  St  James  Square, 
and  back  to  the  Bungalow.  We  (for  Her  Grace  was 
not  acting  then)  usually  dined  at  seven. 

We  very  seldom  had  company.  Once,  indeed,  we 
had  the  Brahams,  the  old  gentleman,  Lady  Walde- 
grave  (she  was  not  her  ladyship  then),  Hamilton 
the  tenor,  and  Warde,  her  favourite  brother,  who 
was  a  major  in  the  regulars — or  was  it  the  militia  ? 
This  little  chap  w^as  the  only  one  of  the  boys  who 
in  the  slightest  degree  resembled  his  famous  father. 

Hamilton,  who  was  fair,  and  above  the  middle 
height,  looked  of  pure  European  strain.  Augustus,  a 
strapping  six-footer,  was  Jewish  to  the  core ;  while 
her  ladyship,  who  betrayed  not  the  slightest  trace 
of  Oriental  descent,  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful, 
accomplished,  and  well-bred  women  I  have  ever 
encountered. 

She  sang  charmingly,  and  played  admii'ably, 
accompanying  Hamilton  and  herself  in  the  famous 
duet  from  "  Norma."  Augustus  gave  us  "  The 
Wolf"  in  grand  style;  while  the  old  war-horse  gave 
us  the  "  Death  of  Nelson,"  and  made  my  back  open 
and  shut.  While  I  was  yet  gasping  with  delight, 
he  told  me  a  singular  thing.  The  music  of  this 
great  national  English  song  he  had  cribbed,  bodily, 
from  the  "  March  of  Henri  Quatre ! " 

On  all  ordinary  occasions  the  Duchess  usually 
adjourned  after  coffee.  By-the-by,  a  pretty  little 
ceremony  always  preceded  her  departure.  When 
she  rose,  we  all  rose ;  the  Captain  ceremoniously 
opened  the  door ;  we  formed  two  lines,  two  and  two, 
through  which  she  passed,  extending  her  hands  on 
either  side,  while  we  kissed  them  as  she  passed  forth 
for  the  night.  Somehow  or  other,  when  she  left  the 
room  she  took  the  light  with  her.  The  conversation 
invariably  reverted  to  billiards  and  horses — things 
utterly  uncongenial  to  me. 

When  these  topics  were  used  up,  cards  were 
produced. 

137 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Now,  I  like  a  game  of  whist,  so  we  commenced  at 
sixpenny  points,  which  soon  grew  to  half-a-crown, 
then  to  half-a-guinea.  One  week  I  dropped  nearly 
twenty  guineas.  Then  the  Duchess  intervened.  How 
she  got  to  know  it  I  never  understood.  Enough  that 
she  did  know. 

Next  day,  as  I  was  about  to  turn  out  for  my 
accustomed  constitutional,  her  maid  came  in.  "  Mrs 
Seymour  s  compliments,  sir,  and  she'll  be  glad  to  see 
you  in  the  dra wring-room,"  said  the  gentle  Martha. 

When  I  came  in,  the  Duchess  opened  fire  with- 
out ceremony. 

'*  Doctor,"  said  she,  '*  you  are  an  ass  I " 

"  Madam  I " 

"  I  repeat  it !  you  are  an  ass  :  or  you  would  have 
seen,  long  ago,  that  my  husband  and  Curling  are 
inveterate  gamblers.  Gus  isn't  much  better,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  have  you  '  rooked '  in  my  house.  You'll 
have  either  to  drop  it,  or  take  up  your  bed  and  walk, 
— whichever  you  prefer." 

*'  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  I  inquired. 

'*  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  you, 
for  I  like  you.  Besides,  you're  so  weak,  and,  excuse  my 
candour,  such  a  lovable  fool,  that  anyone,  especially 
any  woman,  can  twist  you  round  her  little  finger  I " 

'*  Mrs  Seymour  !  "  I  burst  forth. 

"  I've  not  done  yet  1 — there's  a  future  before  you." 

"  A  future  for  a  fellow  of  forty,  who  has  done 
nothing  but  laze  and  loaf  all  his  life ! " 

"  '  I  wouldn't  hear  your  enemy  say  so.'  Your 
best  has  to  come,  if  you'll  only  buckle  to  and  work." 

"  You  really  don't  want  me  to  go  then  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  don't !  You  dear,  stupid,  old  goose  I 
But  no  more  whist." 

"  What's  a  fellow  to  do  ?  The  nights  arc  so 
desperately  dull  when  you  are  gone." 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  sit  there  and  hear 
those  idiots  talk  of  their  luck  at  loo,  their  beastly 
billiards,  or  backing  horses  for  a  place.  No,  thanks  I 
Life's  too  short  for  that.  Besides,  I  can  always  find 
better  company  I " 

138 


THE  DUCHESS,  PEG,  AND  THE  DINNER 

"  I  didn't  know  you  received  company  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  every  night.  Here's  my  companion 
for  to-night,"  and  she  handed  me — "Jane  Eyre." 

"  H'm  1     You're  fond  of  books  ? " 

"  That  depends." 

"  AYould  you  hke  to  read  one  of  mine  ? " 

"  I  won't  promise  to  like  it,  but  I  will  promise 
to  read  it." 

I  was  upstairs  like  a  lamplighter,  and  down  like  a 
flash  of  lightning  with  a  copy  of  "  Peg  Woffington," 
then  off  I  went  for  my  constitutional.  I  didn't  get 
back  till  late.  Dinner  was  waiting,  and  I  hadn't 
time  to  dress.  Fish  boiled  to  smithereens ;  melted 
butter,  sludge ;  fowl  burnt  to  a  cinder. 

Everybody  savage  and  silent. 

At  last  I  made  bold  to  inquire  :  "  What's  up  ?  " 

"  You  ! — and  your  beastly  book  !  Your  precious 
Peg  something  or  other,"  replied  Braham. 

"  Peg  Washington,"  interjected  Curling. 

"  A  Yankee  girl,  I  guess ;  mixed  up  with  the  old 
prig  who  couldn't  tell  a  he,"  responded  Seymour. 

"  Whatever  it  was,"  growled  Braham,  "  the 
Duchess  got  stuck  on  it,  and  let  the  dinner  go  to 
old  Scratch  ! " 

"  So  sorry ! "  I  said.  But  I  wasn't  a  bit  sorry ; 
au  contraire,  I  was  delighted. 

The  men  grew  glummer  than  ever,  till  a  happy 
thought  occurred  to  me. 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,"  I  said,  and  bolted, 
returning  immediately  with  a  magnum  of  Perrier 
Jouet,  which  I  placed  on  the  table. 

It  proved  a  peace-ofFering,  and  there  was  an 
end  to  the  doldrums. 

As  the  Duchess  left  the  room  she  slipped  a 
scrap  of  paper  into  my  hand  on  which  was  written 
the  word  "  Come."  As  soon  as  the  Trinity  were 
engrossed  in  whist,  whisky  and  soda,  and  cigars, 
I  left  them,  and  went  straight  to  the  Duchess's 
sanctum. 

"  WeU,"  she  commenced,  "  of  course  you  see, 
now,  that  the  very  first  time  I  saw  you  I  was  right." 

139 


T.OOKING   BACKWARD 

"Right?" 

'*  Yes.  I  told  you  to  put  the  Scotch  girl — 
what's  her  name,  Chris — Christie  Johnstone — into  a 
novel.     Why  haven't  you  done  so  ? " 

"One  thing  at  a  time.    I  couldn't  do  both  at  once." 

"  Well,  you've  done  one.  And  now  you  must  do 
the  other." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  got  for  '  Peg '  ?  " 

"  No ! " 

"  Thirty  pounds." 

"  Good  God  I  You  don't  say  so  ?  Never  mind  I 
Go  on — you'll  make  thousands  some  of  these  days. 
Though  I  detest  that  odious  creature — that  lump 
of  obesity  and  vanity — who  plays  '  Peg,'  at  the  Hay- 
market.     I've  seen  '  INIasks  and  Faces.' " 

"  You  have  ?  " 

"  Yes  1  went  the  night  before  last,  by  myself,  to 
the  pit  —  paid  my  money  like  a  man !  What  a 
part !  Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  chance  like  that !  But 
never  mind  me !  The  piece  is  lovely,  and  the 
book — your  beautiful  book  ! — well,  I  couldn't  leave 
it.  Look  at  my  hair,  I  hadn't  time  to  tidy  it, 
and  now  I  declare  it's  tumbling  down  my  back ! 
Never  mind  my  hair,  but  think  of  your  head  !  The 
idea  of  a  man  to  whom  God  has  given  a  gift  like 
this,  wasting  time  on  whist ! 

"  Write  '  Christie '  at  once.  I  don't  mean  now, 
this  moment,  but  mind  you  start  to-morrow  morning 
after  breakfast.  Then,  after  dinner,  leave  those 
donkeys  to  their  whist,  and  their  whisky,  and  come 
here  every  evening,  and  bring  what  you've  written." 

"May  I?" 

"  Of  course  you  may.  Who  was  the  French 
author  who  used  to  read  his  plays  to  his  house- 
keeper? Well,  I'm  your  housekeeper,  and  you 
shall  read  your  plays  to  me — that  is,  if  you'll  promise 
not  to  read  me  to  sleep." 

Next  morning,  I  set  to  work  with  a  will  on 
"  Christie  "  and  wrote  two  chapters  right  off  the  reel. 
After  dinner,  I  read  them  to  her,  while  she  sat  in 
judgment. 

140 


PUBLICATION   OF   CHRISTIE 

In  a  month's  time  the  story  was  written,  and 
reahsed  another  munificent  £30.  Scarcely  that,  for 
we  got  to  law  and  loggerheads  about  it !  * 

This  was  the  only  instance  in  which  I  knew  the 
Duchess's  judgment  fail  her.  She  erred  in  goodly 
company  though,  for,  as  I  told  you,  Taylor  was  dead 
against  "  Christie  "  for  a  play. 

The  pirates  knew  better  1  They  had  learnt 
their  trade,  and  were  not  thieves  for  nothing.  It 
is  the  good  subject  they  nail,  not  the  bad  one.  The 
moment  "Christie"  was  published  here,  it  was  packed 
off  across  the  Atlantic  by  a  purveyor  of  stolen  goods, 
and  dramatised  immediately  on  its  arrival  in  America, 
where  for  years  and  years  it  remained  one  of  the  most 
attractive  pieces  on  the  road. 

Thousands  and  thousands  of  dollars  were  netted 
by  the  Yankee  thieves,  but  the  luckless  author  never 
received  a  red  cent  of  the  plunder  I 

I  had  taken  the  Duchess  at  her  word,  and,  night 
after  night,  inflicted  play  after  play  upon  her. 

Despite  her  somewhat  exacting  criticisms  she 
was  particularly  struck  with  "  Gold,"  and,  indeed, 
was  under  the  firm  conviction  that  it  would  prove 
a  great  success.  The  dififtculty  was  to  find  a 
theatre  where  it  could  be  done. 

The  perennial  "  Green  Rushes  "  was  still  holding 
on  at  the  Adelphi.  "  Two  Loves  and  a  Life "  was 
booked  to  follow.     Kean  would  have  none  of  "  Gold," 

*  While  correcting  these  pages  for  the  press  Charles  L.  Reade 
has  sent  me  a  curiosity,  one  eminently  suggestive  of  his  father — 
viz.,  Bentley's  "statement"  (printed,  if  you  please,  on  white  satin!) 
headed  :  "  Analysis  of  the  Accounts  Reade  v.  Bentley,  delivered 
previous  to  the  Injunction." 
"  Peg  Woffington,"   1st  Edition— 500  copies,  10s.  6d. 

Profit  1st  a/c  from  Deer.  1852  to  August  1853      .  Nil 

„       2nd  a/c  July  1856     ....     £10   12     3 

Second  Edition — 5,000  copies,  3s.  6d.      Profit       .  15     0 

"Christie  Johnstone,"  First  edition— 500  copies,  10s.  6d.,  29  H     0 

Second     „  „  „  44   14     6 

Third       „  „  „  4  10  10 

Fourth     „         5,000  copies,  3s.  6d.     Deficit 

What  the  amount  of  the  actual  deficit  was,  does  not  appear  on 

the  face  of  the  white  satin. 

141 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Mathews  wouldn't  hear  of  it  at  the  Lyceum,  and 
Drury  Lane  was  impossible. 

Overwhelmed  with  grief  and  despair,  I  had  re- 
solved "to  quit  the  loathed  stage."  It  is  always 
loathed  when  we  don't  succeed — always  loved  when 
we  do — this  delightful,  damnable  art  of  yours. 

I  had  reached  the  lowest  depths  of  despondency, 
when  one  memorable  morning  (it  was  the  day  after 
Boxing  Night,  1851)  The  Duchess  bounded  into  my 
den,  radiant,  triumphant. 

"News,"  she  exclaimed;  "news!  I've  just  met 
Jimmy  Rogers.  The  Pantomime  at  the  Lane  last 
night  was  a '  frost ' — '  guyed '  from  beginning  to  end  !  " 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?  "  I  inquired,  obtusely. 

"What  then?   Grant  me  patience !    Why, 'Gold'!" 

"  Gold  "  ? 

"Yes,  Gold— G-O-L-D  1  GOLD!  Man  alive, 
can't  you  see  they  must  have  something  to  take  the 
place  of  the  pantomime  ?  And  you've  got  the  very 
article  they  Avant,  ready-made  to  their  hands.  Slip 
on  your  coat  while  I  pack  up  your  manuscript,  and 
off  you  go  and  see  Stirling,  Smith's  factotum,  at 
once." 

"  Don't  know  him  1 " 

"  But  She  does  ! " 

'^She!    Who?" 

"  Why,  your  precious  Peg ! " 

"  Peg  what  ? " 

"Not  'Peg  what,'  but  Peg  Woffington !  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  that  Stirling  is 
that  hussy's  husband  ?  Well,  you  are  a  lunatic  I 
Why,  everyone  knows  they've  been  separated  for 
ages  through  incompatibility  of  temper.  (I  don't 
wonder  at  it,  for  she'd  try  the  patience  of  a  saint !) 
But  they're  the  best  of  friends  in  the  world — at  a 
distance  !  It's  '  Fanny '  this  and  '  Ned '  that !  '  Go ' 
for  her,  and  make  her  '  go '  for  him." 

"  H'm  !     I'll  think  of  it." 

"  And  while  you  are  thinking,  someone  else  will 
nip  in,  and,  as  usual,  you'll  be  left  in  the  cold.  Now 
or  never  !    Off  you  go.     Dinner  ?    Do  without  dinner 

142 


GOLD  I    GOLD !     GOLD  1 

for  once,  or  make  her  give  you  a  chop.     To  do  the 
jade  justice,  she's  not  inhospitable." 

In-half'-an-hour's  time  I  was  with  my  fair  Peggy 
who  rose  to  the  situation ;  and  whilst  I  was  paying 
my  respects  to  that  chop,  and  another  to  keep  com- 
pany, with  a  "  small  bottle,"  she  wrote  an  imperative 
missive  to  her  "  dear  Ned,"  assuring  him  that  "  Gold  " 
(which  she  had  never  read  !)  was  the  strongest  drama 
ever  wiitten,  and  adjuring  him  to  get  it  done  im- 
mediately, and  retrieve  the  fortunes  of  the  theatre. 

Now  Stirling  was  himself  a  workmanlike  drama- 
tist and  had  compiled  a  number  of  more  or  less 
successful  commonplace  dramas. 

His  adaptation  of  "  Nicholas  Nickleby "  at  the 
Adelphi,  drove  Dickens  furious,  inasmuch  as  it  was 
brought  out  before  the  story  (which  was  published 
in  monthly  numbers)  was  finished.  Hence,  it  an- 
ticipated the  originally  contemplated  denouement, 
and  (so  Stirhng  assured  me)  caused  Dickens  to  alter 
it !  Anyhow,  the  drama,  and  Mrs  Keeley's  Smike, 
crowded  the  Adelphi  for  an  entire  season. 

Half-an-hour  after  leaving  Peg  I  was  sipping 
port- wine  negus  with  "  Ned  "  in  his  snuggery.  Half- 
an-hour  later  he  introduced  me  to  the  renowned 
Smith,  a  vulgar  but  wonderful  chap,  full  of  brains  as 
an  ^g  is  full  of  meat.  Born  the  son  of  an  admiral, 
he  had  been  a  bobby,  a  bum-bailifF,  and  ultimately 
became  impresario  of  the  Itahan  Opera. 

He  wasted  no  time  in  words. 

"  If  you  say  it's  right,  old  chap,  right  it  is  ! "  said 
he  to  Stirling.  Then  to  me :  "  Look  here,  laddie,  I'll 
stand  twenty  quid  a  week  as  long  as  the  blooming 
piece  will  go — and  a  box,  did  you  say  ?  Put  him  down 
for  the  Royal  box,  Ned — Royalty  never  comes  to  the 
Lane  nowadays — and  there  you  are,  don't  you  know  !  " 

"  Gold  "  was  produced  on  the  10th  January  1852, 
was  adequately  mounted,  and  sensibly,  though  not 
brilliantly,  acted.  Mr  E.  L.  Davenport,  a  manly, 
robust  American  actor,  who  had  distinguished  him- 
self in  conjunction  with  Mrs  Cora  Mowatt  at  the 
Marylebone  and  Olympic  Theatres  under  a  manage- 

143 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

ment  which  terminated  under  very  tragic  circum- 
stances at  Newgate,  and  who  afterwards  supported 
Macready  during  his  farewell  at  the  Haymarket, 
played  the  part  at  which  you  turned  up  your 
Grecian  nose,  sir !  Henry  Wallack  was  Tom 
Robinson ;  Edward  Stirling,  Isaac  Levi ;  and  Miss 
Fanny  Vining,  Susan  Merton. 

The  public  were  enthusiastic,  but  the  gentlemen 
of  the  fourth  estate,  as  usual,  bludgeoned  me  down 
first,  executed  a  war  dance  on  me  next,  and  another 
on  my  unfortunate  piece. 

The  house  was  packed  nightly,  with — paper,  I 
presume,  for  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  week  the  bold 
Smith  wanted  to  cut  down  my  modest  lionorarium 
of  £20  to  £12.  I  declined  and  indignantly  withdrew 
the  piece,  hence,  he  and  I  parted  at  daggers  drawn 
when  I  made  my  exit  from  old  Drury." 


144 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   DUCHESS   MAKES   A   DEMAND 

A  Box  at  the  Haymarket,  and  a  Supper  at  the  Cafe  de  L'Europe — 
"  Les  Dames  de  la  Halle"  at  the  Adelphi  and  Lyceum — "  A 
Village  Tale "  at  Punch's  Playhouse  —  The  Trinity's  first 
Plunge  into  Management — Failure  number  one  —  Munificent 
Honorarium  for  "Two  Loves  and  a  Life"  at  the  Adelphi — 
Second  Plunge  into  Management  at  the  St  James's  —  Pro- 
duction of  "The  King's  Rival" — Eloquent  Eulogy  upon  the 
Lord  Protector — Failure  upon  Failure  —  The  Duchess  puts 
her  Foot  down  and  points  the  Way  to  Success — An  Inspira- 
tion :  "  Thou  marshal' st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going,  And 
such  an  Instrument  I  was  to  use ! " 

"  I  couldn't  get  over  the  failure  of  my  treasured 
hopes,  and  for  a  month  or  two  was  in  the  depths 
of  despair. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  suit  me  ? "  abruptly 
demanded  the  Duchess  one  night  after  dinner. 

"Well — yes;  I've  a  couple  of  pieces  taken  from 
the  French." 

"  Taken !  Stolen,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Well, 
we'll  take  one  to-morrow  night  and  one  the  night 
after." 

We  did  take  'em,  and  they  appeared  to  take 
her  fancy. 

The  parts  designed  for  her  were  central  figures, 
and  monopolised  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  interest,  and 
she  asked  me  to  let  her  have  the  manuscripts  to 
read  herself. 

Three  nights  later  I  had  a  box  at  the  Haymarket, 
and  invited  the  family  to  accompany  me.  (How- 
ever wealthy  a  man  may  be,  he  never  turns  up 
K  145 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

his  nose  at  a  private  box,  especially  if  he  can  get 
it  for  nothing.) 

The  Jews  are  the  most  generous  race  in  exist- 
ence, and  they  will  stand  a  dinner  which  will  cost 
five  or  ten  guineas  if  they  can  secure  a  private  box 
on  the  nod.  Braham  and  Seymour  both  belonged  to 
the  great  historic  race.  They  jumped  at  the  idea 
of  the  box,  and  proposed  that  we  should  dine  at 
the  Cafe  de  I'Europe.  The  Duchess  wouldn't  hear 
of  this.  "  No  I "  said  she,  "  a  light  and  early  tea- 
dinner  at  home,  and  supper  after  the  play,  if  you 
like,"  and  so  the  matter  was  settled. 

The  theatre  was  crowded,  and  money  was  turned 
from  the  doors. 

The  play  went  splendidly.  Peg  and  Triplet 
saw  us  and  acted  to  us  and  at  us.  "  The  eye  can 
be  as  vocal  as  the  tongue,"  and  a  kind  of  optical 
duel  went  on  all  the  evening  between  the  actress 
on  the  stage  and  the  actress  in  the  box.  Their 
eyes  struck  fire  as  they  glanced  and  glared  at  each 
other. 

It  was  the  old,  old  story  of  the  "  ins "  and  the 
"  outs."  The  "  outs  "  wanted  to  be  in,  and  the  "  ins  " 
exulted  in  keeping  them  out.  In  this  case  the 
"  in  "  gloried  in  her  triumph,  for  a  triumph  it  was ! 

"  It's  the  part,"  snapped  the  Duchess  through 
her  teeth  as  we  came  out.  "  There  never  was  such 
a  part ! " 

"  Can't  the  doctor  write  you  such  an  one  ? " 
inquired  Seymour  as  we  sat  down  to  supper. 

"  He  might  try,"  I  replied,  "  only,  unfortunately, 
parts  hke  Peg  don't  grow  on  every  bush." 

"  Of  course  not,  of  course  not !  It's  only  the 
impostors  who  get  chances  like  that." 

"  Wonderful  business  !  "  cut  in  Braham.  "  Old 
Ben  must  be  in  clover  now,  and  not  before  he 
wanted  it.  To  my  certain  knowledge  he's  been 
paying  Isaacs,  the  tailor,  fifty  per  cent,  for  months 
past  to  keep  afloat." 

"Well,  he's  afloat  now  at  anyrate,  and  I  only 
wish  we  could  get  a  look  in,"  said  Curling. 

146 


FIRST   PLUNGE    INTO   MANAGEMENT 

"  'Tain't  likely !  But  we  might  have  a  little 
flutter  on  our  own  if  the  Duchess  sees  her  way," 
suggested  Braham. 

"I'll  sleep  on  it,  and  we  can  talk  it  over  to- 
morrow," Her  Grace  replied. 

She  did  sleep  on  it,  with  the  result  that  we 
all  resolved  to  put  in  a  "  bit "  to  give  her  a  chance 
in  my  two  new  plays — that  is,  if  we  could  get  a 
look  in  anywhere. 

And,  there  and  then,  Seymour  and  I  set  off'  to 
see  your  friend,  old  Copeland  of  Liverpool,  who 
had  taken  the  Strand  Theatre  and,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  his  brother-in-law,  Douglas  Jerrold,  christened 
it  Punch's  Playhouse. 

Like  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie  I  have  often  said 
since : 

"  I  wish  my  buits  had  been  filled  with  hat 
watther  before  1  put  'em  on  for  siccan  a  damnable 
purpose ! " 

But  our  first  plunge  into  management  is  a  long 
story,  and " 

It  is  a  long  story,  so  long  that,  were  I  to  repeat 
it,  with  all  its  prolix  and  piquant  details,  'twould 
monopohse  the  remainder  of  this  volume,  hence  I 
must  needs  boil  it  down  to  reasonable  hmits. 

At  or  about  March  1852  "  Les  Dames  de  la 
Halle "  had  made  a  great  hit  in  Paris,  and  our 
managers  immediately  proceeded  to  appropriate  the 
French  author's  property. 

No  less  a  personage  than  George  H.  Lewes  went 
through  the  plundering  process  for  the  Lyceum, 
where  his  adaptation,  "  A  Chain  of  Events,"  was 
produced  on  the  aforesaid  Easter  Monday,  in  eight 
long  acts,  occupying  the  entire  evening  in  repre- 
sentation. 

A  very  splendid  production  it  was.  The  cast 
included  Charles  Mathews,  Basil  Baker,  Frank 
JNIathews,  Belton,  Rosiere,  Madame  Vestris,  Julia  St 
George,  and  Laura  Keene. 

One   effect — the    sinking    ship,    with    all    hands 

147 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

aboard — has  not  since  been  excelled  ;  it  is  doubtful  if 
it  has  been  even  equalled. 

At  the  Adelphi,  Webster  himself  did  the  "pick- 
ing and  stealing."  Here  also  the  piece  was  admirably 
cast :  besides  Celeste  and  Woolgar,  Ellen  Chaplin, 
and  Kathleen  Fitzwilliam,  there  were  Wright,  Sam 
Emery,  O.  Smith,  and  that  accomplished  actress 
Mrs  Keeley. 

Now,  Reade  had  also  appropriated  "  Les  Dames 
de  la  Halle,"  and  he  endeavoured  to  persuade 
Copeland  to  produce  it.  That  gentleman  was  too 
astute  to  enter  the  lists  with  the  Lyceum  and  the 
Adelphi.  He,  however,  did  produce  a  piece  of 
Reade's  (another  Frenchman,  or  woman  rather, 
founded  upon  Georges  Sand's  "  Claudie ")  called 
"  A  Village  Tale,"  with  the  result  that,  on  the  very 
first  night,  a  notice  was  put  up  for  the  theatre  to 
close  in  a  fortnight.  "^ 

JNIortified  at  this  pronounced  failure,  out  of  sheer 
obstinacy,  the  Trinity  took  the  theatre  on  their  own 
responsibility. 

Then  commenced  the  first  of  the  numerous 
theatrical  speculations  in  which  my  poor  friend  was 
so  frequently  worsted.  On  the  26th  of  April  he 
produced  his  adaptation  of  "  Les  Dames  de  la 
Halle"  under  the  title  of  "The  Lost  Husband" 
with  JNIrs  Seymour  in  the  part  played  by  Mrs 
Keeley  at  the  Adelphi,  and  by  Madame  Vestris  at 
the  Lyceum.  To  attempt  to  compete  with  the 
magnificent  productions  of  the  Lyceum  and  the 
Adelphi  in  a  bandbox  like  the  Strand  was  to  court 
defeat.  The  result  was  exactly  what  Copeland  had 
anticipated,  and  Reade's  first  theatrical  speculation 
terminated  in  a  month,  involving  considerable  loss. 

He,  however,  always  maintained  that  "  out  of  the 
nettle,  danger,  he  had  plucked  the  rose,  safety  " ;  and 
on  the  strength  of  this  month's  appearance  at  the 
Strand  he  obtained  several  provincial  engagements 

*  This  very  play  was  exhumed  twenty  years  later  and  successfully 
revived  at  the  Adelphi  and  the  Queen's  under  the  title  of  "  Rachel 
the  Reaper." 

148 


TWO   LOVES   AND   A  LIFE 

for  Mrs  Seymour,  during  which  she  distinguished 
herself  highly  both  in  "  The  Ladies'  Battle "  and 
in  "  JNIasks  and  Faces." 

On  returning  to  town  he  and  Taylor  completed 
their  noblest  play,  "  Two  Loves  and  a  Life,"  which 
was  produced  at  the  Adelphi  in  April  1864. 

Although  beautifully  mounted  and  capitally 
acted,  it  never  attracted  to  the  extent  of  its  merits 
either  in  town  or  country.  As  literary  work,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  far  and  away  in  advance 
of  any  drama  of  the  same  class  in  this  century. 
There  is  nothing  more  touching  or  more  beautiful 
in  the  whole  range  of  dramatic  literature  than  the 
story  of  Juanita  in  the  second  act. 

Although  the  public  and  the  critics  never  noted 
it,  the  treatment  of  this  scene  marked  a  new 
departure  in  the  actor's  art. 

Up  to  this  time  one  of  the  stereotyped  effects 
of  tlie  conventional  tragedian  was  '"  to  tear  a  passion 
to  tatters  "  in  the  narration  of  certain  moving  ante- 
cedent events  by  flood  and  field. 

Two  notable  instances  will  suffice  to  illustrate 
my  meaning — e.g.  Earl  Osmond's  dream  in  Monk 
Lewis's  high  -  falutin'  and  archaic  drama,  "  The 
Castle  Spectre,"  and  the  Count  de  Valmont's  narra- 
tive of  the  sacking  of  his  castle  and  the  abduction 
of  his  wife  and  child  in  Dimond's  "  Foundling 
of  the  Forest." 

I  have  seen  intelligent  and  excellent  actors  go 
almost  into  convulsions  in  these  two  scenes,  and, 
what  is  more,  have  seen  intelligent  audiences  so 
carried  away  by  this  absurd  exaggeration  that  the 
entire  house  has  risen  into  an  absolute  frenzy 
of  acclamation. 

It  was  once  cynically  said  of  Alfred  Wigan  (an 
admirable  and  accomplished  actor  in  his  own  de- 
partment ! )  that,  in  attempting  Faulconbridge,  he 
had  reduced  the  part  to  his  own  standard  of  in- 
capacity. 

It  may  have  been,  and  probably  was,  Webster's 
physical   weakness   that   compelled    him    to   discard 

149 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

declamation  in  Father  RadclifFe's  touching  story  to 
Gervase  Rookwood,  but,  whatever  the  cause,  it 
certainly  impressed  upon  the  rising  generation  of 
actors  the  necessity  of  moderating  their  tragic  trans- 
ports. 

After  all  these  years,  I  retain  the  most  vivid 
impression  of  Webster  recalling  the  supreme  moment 
when  love  leaped  rejoicing  to  life  in  the  heart  of 
the  ascetic  Jesuit.  I  can  still  see  him  wave  his 
beautiful  hand  towards  the  cruel  sea :  can  still  hear 
that  pathetic  wail  —  "  Juanita  !  Juanita  !  The  sea 
would  not  give  up  its  dead  !     Silent !     Silent ! " 

There  was  no  applause,  but  there  was  a  heart 
throb  which  I  feel  now. 

Such,  however,  is  the  perversity  of  public  taste, 
this  play  was  only  acted  at  my  theatre  in  the  country, 
and  has  never  been  revived  in  London  since  its  first 
production  at  the  Adelphi.  For  my  own  part,  I  had 
such  faith  in  it  that,  during  the  first  year  I  went 
into  management,  I  expended  three  or  four  hundred 
pounds  upon  its  production,  with  most  direful  re- 
sults. The  manager,  as  well  as  the  author,  is 
unfortunate  who  is  "before  his  time." 

Here  were  two  men  of  distinguished  ability, 
who  had  been  for  a  whole  year  occupied  on  a  great 
work,  which  rewarded  them  with  hostile  criticism, 
an  apathetic  public,  and  the  munificent  honorarium 
of  £100  ! 

Reade  was  one  of  the  most  obstinate  men  in 
the  world,  and  despite  the  failure  of  his  managerial 
experiment  at  the  Strand,  was  firmly  convinced  that 
the  theatre  was  a  veritable  Tom  Tiddler's  gi'ound, 
where  managers  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  crib 
French  pieces,  grind  down  authors,  actors,  and  act- 
resses, bribe  venal  hirelings  on  the  press,  pick  up 
gold  and  silver,  and  live  in  splendour  on  their  ill- 
gotten  gains.  The  Trinity  was  impressed  with  the 
same  ideas,  while  both  Reade  and  the  Duchess, 
conscious  of  their  own  abihty,  were  bitterly  indig- 
nant at  being  kept  out  of  what  they  considered 
their  rightful  inheritance. 

150 


THE   ST  JAMES'S   THEATRE,    1854 

They  had  backed  the  winner  at  Ascot  and  were 
all  over  money.  The  Duchess  had  cleared  a  heap, 
besides  which  she  had  a  considerable  amount  to  her 
credit  from  the  American  tour. 

Reade  had  made  a  "  bit "  too  at  Ascot,  thanks 
to  Seymour's  good  offices,  and  had  a  handsome  nest- 
egg  left  from  the  money  advanced  by  his  mother. 

They  had  all  grown  hot  upon  the  Nell  Gwynne 
subject,  fully  convinced  that  it  would  carry  every- 
thing before  it.  Money  being  no  object ;  the  main 
point  was  to  get  a  theatre.  In  September  1854  the 
St  James's,  then  a  new  and  fashionable  building  in  an 
aristocratic  neighbourhood,  was  to  let.  Augustus 
Braham  consulted  his  father  (the  proprietor),  and 
the  family  solicitor,  and  an  arrangement  was  made 
to  open  in  October. 

A  powerful  company  was  organised.  Miss  Glyn, 
then  at  her  zenith,  was  retained  for  Miss  Stuart ; 
Mrs  Seymour  was,  of  course,  Nell  Gwynne ;  George 
Vandenhoff^  "Charles  the  Second  ;  Tom  JVIeade,  Rich- 
monHl  Tom  Stuart  (the  '  cageoTion"'),  played  a 
Major  Somebody  or  other,  who  was  stricken  with 
the  plague,  and  whose  realistic  acting  almost  terrified 
the  people  out  of  the  house ;  and  JNIr  Toole  made 
his  first  appearance  in  London  as  Ir'epysi 

The  play  was  powerful  and  interesting,  but  sadly 
needed  revision  and  condensation.  The  comedy 
scene  between  Old  Rowley  and  Nell  (founded 
upon  Reade's  second  interview  with  Mrs  Seymour, 
when  they  lighted  and  made  the  fire  between  them) 
evoked  unbounded  merriment,  but  the  effect  of  the 
play  was  the  eulogy  upon  the  Lord  Protector  (the 
mighty  Oliver)  which,  beyond  all  doubt,  is  the  noblest 
epitaph  ever  written  in  the  English  language. 

This  work  is  rarely  or  ever  acted,  and  is  almost 
unknown  to  the  present  generation.  I  avail  myself, 
therefore,  of  the  license  of  occasion  to  quote  this 
magnificent  philippic,  and  to  describe  the  situation 
in  which  it  occurs. 

At  one  of  the  deepest  periods  of  shame  in 
our    island    story,    at    a    period   when    the    Dutch 

151 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Admiral,  Van  Tromp,  and  his  valiant  sailors  have 
bombarded  Chatham  and  Sheerness,  have  burnt  our 
ships  to  the  water's  edge  and  sunk  them,  have 
swept  the  chops  of  the  Channel  with  a  broom  at 
their  mast-heads,  while  their  victorious  fleet  actu- 
ally lies  anchored  and  unmolested  in  the  Medway, 
the  French  King's  pensioner,  the  airy,  charming 
gentleman  yclept — God  save  the  mark  ! — "  The 
JNIerry  Monarch,"  and  his  merry  satellities  are 
making  night  shamelessly  wanton  at  an  orgie  in 
Spring  Gardens.  At  this  instant  —  while  the 
thunder  of  the  Dutchman's  artillery  is  heard  in  the 
palace  at  Whitehall :  while  it  penetrates  the  people's 
palace — the  Commons'  House  at  Westminster: 
while  it  is  heard  in  Spring  Gardens,  drowning  the 
bacchanals'  song,  the  roar  of  the  reveller,  the  ribald 
laughter  of  pimps,  panders,  and  harlots,  one  parasite, 
more  shameless  than  the  rest,  calls  upon  the  half- 
drunken  Richmond  to  drink  "  To  the  King ! " 

With  eyes  aflame,  and  heart  afire,  the  indignant 
nobleman  springs  to  his  feet  and,  trumpet-tongued, 
exclaims : 

"  No,  gentlemen,  no  I  Those  guns  have  sobered 
me.  They  ring  the  knell  of  England's  honour 
in  my  ears !  But,  I  will  give  you  a  health  —  the 
health  that  should  be  drunk  to  that  ignominious 
music  !  Fill  your  glasses,  ladies  and  gentles  of  the 
court,  for  I  drink  to  the  memory  of  a  man,  by 
birth  a  yeoman,  and  by  soul  an  emperor.  Raise 
your  glasses  high,  dwarfs,  for  I  drink  to  a  giant. 
Whilst  he  lived  no  Dutchman  swept  our  English 
seas.  No  Castlemaines  dishonoured  the  high  places, 
and  insulted  the  matrons  of  the  land.  Vice  and 
folly  trembled  at  his  eye,  and  all  good  things  lay 
safe  beneath  his  mighty  shadow.  He  died,  and 
then  curs  took  courage,  and  tore  the  great  man's 
body  from  the  tomb — from  hallowed  ground,  but 
no  power  can  tear  him  from  his  immortal  sepulchre 
in  England's  heart.  Honour  and  reverence  to  those 
dismembered  bones  that  were  the  Protector ;  ay ! 
the    protector    of    every    honest    man    and    chaste 

152 


THE   MIGHTY   OLIVER! 

woman  in  the  land  ;  and  the  scourge  of  cowardly 
soldiers,  of  unchristian  prelates,  of  cut-purse  nobles, 
and  lascivious  kings  !  " 

Talk  about  blank  verse  ! 

No  nobler  poetry  has  been  written  since  the 
spacious  times  of  gi-eat  Elizabeth  than  these  soul- 
stirring  lines. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  campaign,  Reade  pro- 
duced a  comedy  of  his  own  entitled  "  Nobs  and 
Snobs."  However,  next  to  the  "  King's  Rival,"  the 
most  noteworthy  event  of  his  management  was  the 
production  of  Captain  Spicer's  scholarly  and  admir- 
able adaptation  of  the  "Alcestis." 

The  season,  I  fear,  also  involved  a  serious  loss, 
to  retrieve  whicli  Mrs  Seymour  went  once  more  into 
the  country,  supported  by  a  compact  and  admir- 
able company,  amongst  which  were  the  Robertson  "T^i^-^ 
family,  including  the  future  dramatist,  who,  all  un- 
conscious of  his  coming  greatness,  fulfilled  the 
humble  but  onerous  duties  of  prompter. 

Considering  how  erratic  Reade  could  be  at  times, 
his  industry  and  fecundity  at  this  period  was  simply 
marvellous. 

Almost  immediately  after  returning  from  this 
tour  he  and  Taylor  wrote  an  archaic  and  almost 
forgotten  play  called,  "  The  First  Printer,"  which 
was  produced  with  questionable  success,  at  the 
Princess's.  This  was  soon  followed  by  Reade's 
adaptation  of  *'  The  Courier  of  Lyons,"  which, 
thanks  to  the  admirable  performance  of  Henry 
Irving,  throbs  with  life  and  motion  to-day  as 
strongly  as  it  did  half-a-century  ago  under  the 
masterly  rendition   of  Charles  Kean. 

In  one  respect,  this  adaptation  is  a  truly  remark- 
able piece  of  stagecraft.  Most  of  Reade's  dramas 
are  distinguished  by  prolixity  and  redundancy,  but 
here,  in  adapting  another  man's  work,  he  produced 
a  masterpiece  of  construction  and  condensation. 
Except   dear  old  Palgrave  Simpson's   adaptation  of 

163 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

Edmund  Yates'  novel,  "  Black  Sheep "  (which  is  a 
model  of  dramatisation),  there  is  nothing  on  our 
stage  which,  for  terseness,  simplicity,  and  strength, 
can  compare  with  Reade's  arrangement  of  the  third 
and  fourth  acts  of  the  "  Courier  of  Lyons."  Although 
this  is  a  mere  expression  of  individual  opinion,  it 
may  at  least  be  accepted  as  an  impartial  one,  since 
I  myself  had  previously  adapted  the  play ;  and  was, 
indeed,  the  original  actor  of  the  dual  parts  in  this 
country ;  but  upon  seeing  Reade's  version  I  put 
my  own  behind  the  fire,  and  have  never  acted  it 
since. 

He  was  now  forty  years  of  age,  and,  as  yet,  had 
done  nothing  to  satisfy  his  ambition ;  but  he  knew 
his  own  strength,  and  felt  convinced  that  everything, 
the  world  itself,  comes  round  to  him"  who  kri03KS_ 
how  to  wait,  and  who  lives  long  enough.  It  was 
at  this  time  he  said  to  his  brother  Compton :  "  I 
am  like  Goldsmith  and  Sir  Walter :  I  shall  blossom 
late." 

At  this  crisis  in  his  career  the  sound,  practical 
common-sense  of  INIrs  Seymour  came  to  the  rescue. 
Having  had  enough  of  theatrical  speculation, 
she  incessantly  urged  him  to  quit  the  precarious 
pursuit  in  which  he  had  been  so  cruelly  baffled, 
and  to  devote  his  great  powers  and  his  undivided 
attention  to  narrative  literature. 

He  listened  in  silence,  but  her  words  were  not 
wasted.  They  reminded  him  of  words  spoken  by 
another  woman  who,  though  she  had  passed  out  of 
his  life,  had  left  her  mark  upon  it  and  upon  him. 

He  retired  "into  himself"  and  tried  to  think  out 
some  mode  of  availing  himself  of  this  sympathetic 
and  sagacious  advice.  At  the  moment  there  was  no 
way  open. 

He  would  make  one  :  of  that  he  felt  quite  assured  ! 
But  how  —  how  ?  That  was  the  question  which 
exercised  his  mind  from  morning  till  night,  but 
answer  never  came. 

At  last  it  came,  in  the  columns  of  the  Times. 

This  was  how  he  afterwards    (26th   April    1871) 

154 


THE   SOURCE   OF   INSPIRATION 

described,  in  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  that  journal, 
the  source  of  his  inspiration : 

"A  noble  passage  in  the  Times  of  September  7 
or  8,  1853,  touched  my  heart,  inflamed  my  imagina- 
tion, and  was  the  germ  of  my  first  important  work, 
'  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  INIend.'  That  column,  a 
monument  of  head,  heart,  and  English,  stands  now 
dramatised  in  my  pages,  embellishing  the  work 
which  inspired  it !  " 

The  moment  after  he  read  this  article,  leaping 
down  stairs,  he  burst  into  the  Duchess's  sanctum, 
crying :  "  Found  !  found  !  Listen."  And  he  read 
her  the  article  from  beginning  to  end,  while  she 
stood  in  breathless  excitement. 

"  The  duffers  thought  '  Gold '  was  dead,  but 
it  was  only  sleeping,  and  now  it's  alive ! "  he 
exclaimed.  "  INIy  beautiful  Susan  is  alive  !  George 
Fielding,  and  Levi,  and  JNIeadows  are  alive !  Above 
all,  Tom  Robinson  is  alive !  I  will  take  him 
into  their  inferno  and  bring  him  out  alive  and 
kicking !  I  will,  by  God  1  I  will  take  him  to 
Australia  too,  and — but  there — there !  I'm  ofit'  to 
Spottiswoode's  for  the  blue  -  books,  and  then,  yes 
then,  I'll  write,  and  you  shall  sit  in  judgment ;  and 
then,  then — thank  God  !  Thank  God  I "  and  off  he 
ran  to  Spottiswoode's. 

The  blue-books  set  his  blood  on  fire,  and  with 
that  ever-active  sympathy  with  the  suffering  and  the 
oppressed,  that  intense  hatred  of  the  wrong-doer, 
which  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life  were  his  most 
dominant  feelings,  he  girded  up  his  loins  to  do 
battle. 

A  mere  pamphlet  would  not  achieve  the  object  in 
view — blood,  brains,  life,  must  be  put  into  the  dry 
bones.  Tom  Robinson  was  already  in  existence,  our 
fiery  author  made  the  wretched  convict  his  cheval  de 
bataille,  and  the  episode  of  the  model  prison  was 
incorporated  with  the  original  story  of  *'  Gold  " ! 


155 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  GENESIS  OF  "IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND" 

Four  Years'  Work — Morning,  Noon,  and  Night — Why  and  how 
"  Gold "  was  transmogrified  into  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to 
Mend" — Time  and  Tide — A  severe  but  sympathetic  Critic — 
A  memorable  five  Minutes  in  the  Black  Hole  at  York  Castle 
— Similar  Experiences  at  Durham,  Reading,  Oxford,  New- 
gate, and  the  Model  Inferno  at  Birmingham — How  an  Artist 
in  Letters  gets  at  his  Facts — Excerpts  from  an  old  Diary — 
The  word  Finis  at  last — The  Book  is  the  Rage  of  the  Hour 
—  Edition  follows  Edition  —  Coin  does  not  always  bring 
Content — Pirates  spring  up  on  every  Hand  and  surrep- 
titiously dramatise  the  Book  without  the  Author's  Permis- 
sion—  The  spurious  Versions  realise  Bushels  of  Money  for 
the  Thieves,  but  the  luckless  Author  gets  nothing  but 
Litigation  and  Vexation  —  Pirates  triumphant  —  W^oman's 
Wit  to  the  Rescue — Author  Defeats  the  Robbers  and  shuts 
them  up  —  Dramatises  the  Book  himself — Sends  his  Play 
to  all  the  Central  London  Managers,  who  do  not  deign  to 
look  at  it — It  lies  on  the  Shelf  for  Seven  Years,  when  a 
Young  Man  from  the  Country  looks  in 

"  That  book  took  four  years  morning,  noon,  and 
night — out  my  life.  I  wi-ote  here,  there,  everywhere, 
— in  town,  at  Oxford — laying  down  a  definite  plan 
from  which  I  never  departed  ;  always  determined  to 
leave  nothing  to  accident,  nothing  to  guess-work." 

{''Just  now  you  called  it  'Gold.'*  WJiy  did 
you  christen  it  '  Never  too  Late '  ?  ") 

"  I  didn't.  It  was  the  Duchess.  I  had  read  her 
the  concluding  chapter  of  the  prison  episode,  where- 
upon she  said  :  '  I  don't  like  your  title.  "  Gold  "  only 
serves  to  recall  a  failure.' 

*  Only  so  recently  as  a  month  ago,  Mr  Charles  L.  Reade 
showed  me  the  first  part  of  the  original  MS.  endorsed  by  the 
author  in  huge  sprawling  letters  "  Gold." 

166 


EXHUMATION   OF   "GOLD  " 

"  It  wasn't  a  failure  I  It  wasn't ! "  I  blurted  out. 

" '  You  say  it  wasn't,  but  Smith  says  it  was,'  she 
replied. 

"  And  I  say  he  is  a  har ! " 

*' '  That  goes  without  saying,  but  he's  not  a  fool  1 
If  he'd  been  making  money,  do  you  think  he'd  have 
been  such  an  ass  as  to  take  it  out  of  the  bill  for  a 
miserable  eight  pounds  a  week  ?  Not  exactly  1 
Anyhow,  whether  it  was  a  failure  or  a  success,  you 
don't  want  the  world  to  know  that  you  are  dishing 
up  a  new  novel  out  of  an  old  play.  You've  been  a 
long  time  making  up  your  mind  about  it ;  but  it's 
never  too  late  to  mend,  —  so  suppose  you  call  it 
"Better  Late  than  Never"?' 

"  Not  half  a  bad  idea.     I'll  think  about  it." 

"  I  did  think  about  it  a  good  deal ;  but  remained 
undecided  some  time,  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  later, 
I  wi'ote  thus.     Listen: 

"'I  will  work  hard  at  my  tale  of  "  Gold,"  whether 
under  that  title  or  another.  I  will  hunt  up  two  men 
who  have  lived  in  Australia.  From  them  I  will  get 
real  warm  facts.  I  will  visit  all  the  London  prisons, 
and  get  the  truth  from  them  for  the  Robinson 
business.' 

"I  did  do  so,  and  picked  up  heaps  of  valuable 
information. 

"  Sometimes  I  worked  quickly,  sometimes  slowly, 
always  reading  chapter  after  chapter  to  my  Egeria, 
who  sat  upon  my  work  and  upon  me.  Heavens,  how 
she  did  sit  upon  us ! 

" '  Remember,'  said  she, 

'  "  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men ' 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune." 

'  Your  time  and  tide  have  come,  and  you  are 
fortunate  in  securing  one  of  the  biggest,  if  not  the 
biggest,  subject  of  the  time.  Everything  depends 
upon  how  you  treat  it.  Don't  worry  over  it,  and, 
above  all,  don't  hurry  it.  Make  sure  of  your  facts. 
Don't  be  too  high-falutin',  and  never  use  a  big  word 
when  a  little  one  will  do.' 

157 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  Although  unable  to  write  a  line,  she  could  tell 
how  lines  should  be  written  and  spoken.  Though 
a  severe,  she  was  a  sympathetic  critic,  had  a 
wonderful  ear,  could  tell  the  exact  word  to  delete 
or  interpolate,  knew  where  a  line  would  tell,  or 
where  it  would  fail. 

"  Then  her  knowledge  of  the  acted  drama,  and 
of  the  tricks  and  dodges  of  the  stage,  was  complete 
and  invaluable.  She  had  marvellous  aptitude  for 
the  artifices  of  climax  and  situation.  When  I 
stumbled,  she  put  me  on  my  feet;  when  I  was 
about  to  go  down  in  sight  of  port,  she  brought 
i    me  safely  into  harbour. 

i  "  INIark  you  !  if  she  erred  at  all  'twas  not  on  the 

^   score  of  clemency,  and  she  didn't  hesitate  to  speak 
her  mind. 

"  '  That '  was  commonplace,  '  this '  high-falutin', 
as  for  '  the  other  J  that  wretched  snivelling  rubbish, 
you've  said  it  before,  so  out  with  it  —  out  with  it 
at  once ! 

"  '  Stop,  stop  ! — yesterday  her  hair  was  burnished 
gold,  now  'tis  raven  black.  It  can't  be  both, 
unless  she  dyes  or  bleaches  it  I ' 

"  Talk  about  scissors  !  she  used  shears,  and  when  I 
/  wrote  yards  she  cut  'em  down  to  inches  ! 
^  "I  was  all  right  so  long  as  I  remained  in  Bark- 
shire,  for  I  am  a  son  of  the  soil,  and  know  every  inch 
of  the  wold  ;  but  when  I  got  inside  the  model  prison 
I  was  lost  in  the  depths  of  hell,  and  when  I  wriggled 
out  and  got  aboard  ship,  I  found  I  was  only  a  poor 
lost  land-lubber;  and,  worse  still,  when  I  got  to 
Australia,  I  was  more  at  sea  than  I  was  on  ship- 
board. So  I  resolved  to  find  it  all  out  for  myself. 
Do  you  remember  when  you  took  me  to  see  York 
Castle  and  I  got  the  chap  to  lock  us  up  in  the  black 
hole  ? " 

"  /  should  think  I  do.  Had  we  been  there  five 
minutes  longer  I  think  I  should  have  gone  mad.'' 

"Well,  I  went  through  all  that  at  Durham,  at 
Reading,  and  Oxford,  in  Newgate,  and  even  in  Bir- 
mingham itself,  and  I  wanted  to  give  you   a  taste 

158 


EXCERPTS   FROM   AN   OLD   DIARY 

of  it  that  you  might  feel  what  Tom  Robinson's  sensa- 
tions were,  while  going  through  that  damnable  ordeal. 

"  Any  inaccuracy  or  exaggeration  in  describing  the 
tortures  those  poor  devils  endured  in  that  inferno 
would  not  only  have  been  detrimental  to  my  work 
but  would  have  rendered  it  absolutely  ridiculous. 

"  Hand  over  that  diary — no,  not  that,  the  other 
one !  Now  hsten,  and  disabuse  your  mind  of  your 
delusions  about  the  midnight  oil,  and  learn  how  an 
artist  in  letters  sets  about  his  business. 

"  Here  is  the  fost  entry  in  Durham  : 

'"Aug.  10,  '51.  I  have  sketched  the  plot  of  an 
original  drama.  I  am  studying  for  it  a  Httle.  One  of 
my  characters  is  to  be  a  thief.  I  have  the  entree  of 
Durham  Gaol,  and  I  am  studying  thieves.  I  have  got 
lots  of  their  letters,  and  one  or  two  autobiographies 
from  the  chaplain.' 

"  That  was  the  first  idea  of  Tom  Robinson." 

" '  Mem. — Not  to  trust  this  play  in  any  theatre, 
because  there  are  plenty  of  blackguards  about,  and 
any  fool  could  write  a  play  that  would  go  down  upon 
this  subject.  I  am  glad  in  one  way  of  having  written 
it.  I  w^ant  to  show  people  that,  though  I  adapt 
French  pieces,  I  can  invent,  too,  if  I  choose  to  take 
the  trouble ;  and  it  is  a  trouble,  I  confess.' 

"  Well — I  did  take  trouble,  and  I  thought  of  no- 
thing else  by  day — dreamt  of  nothing  else  by  night. 
I  churned  it  up  in  my  brain-pan,  and,  months  later, 
wrote  this.  Hearken !  and  see  how  it  began  to 
take  shape. 

" '  Having  collected  material  in  Durham  Gaol, 
whatever  I  ^vidte  about  Tom  Robinson's  gaol  will 
carry  {I  hope)  a  physical  exterior  of  truth. 

"  '  George  Fielding  is  going  in  a  ship  to  Australia. 
I  know  next  to  nothing  about  a  ship  ;  but  my  brother 
Bill  is  a  sailor.  I  have  commissioned  him  to  de- 
scribe, as  he  w^ould  to  an  intelligent  child,  a  ship 
sailing  with  the  wind  on  her  beam — then  a  luU — a 
change  of  wind  to  dead  aft,  and  the  process  of 
making  all  sail  upon  a  ship  under  that  favourable 
ckcumstance. 

159 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

"  *  Simple  as  this  is,  it  has  never  been  done  in 
human  writing  so  as  to  be  intelligible  to  landsmen. 
" '  One  of  my  characters  is  a  Jew — an  Oriental 
Jew.  It  will  be  his  fate  to  fall  into  argument  not 
only  with  Susan  Merton  but  with  the  chaplain  of 
my  gaol.  It  will  be  my  business  to  show  what  is 
in  the  head  and  in  the  heart  of  a  modern  Jew.  This 
entails  the  reading  of  at  least  eight  considerable 
volumes ;  but  these  eight  volumes  will  make  my 
Jew  a  Truth,  please  God,  instead  of  a  Lie. 

" '  JNly  story  must  cross  the  water  to  Australia, 

and   plunge   after   that   into   a    gold-mine.      To   be 

consistent   with   myself,    I   ought    to   cross-examine 

at   the  very  least   a  dozen   men  that  liave  farmed, 

dug,  or  robbed  in  that  land.     If  I  can  get  hold  of 

two  or  three  that  have  really  been  in  it,  I  think  I 

could   win   the   public    by    these    means.       Failing 

these,   I  must   read   books   and  letters,  and  do  the 

best  I  can.     Such  is  the  mechanism  of  a  novel   by 

Charles  Reade.     I  know  my  system  is  right;    but, 

,   unfortunately,  there  are  few  men  so  little  fitted  as 

^  ^.^  myself  to  work  this  system.     A  great  capacity  for 

y      ,  labour  is  the  first  essential.     Now,   I  have  a  singu- 

\pr  larly  small  capacity  for  acquisitive  labour.     A  patient, 

IT         ^'^        indomitable  spirit  the  second.     Here  I  fail  miserably. 

\^  '  A  stout  heart  the  third.     My  heart  is  womanish.     A 

'^«'  vast  memory  the  fourth.     My  memory  is  not  worth 

,^,         -W      a  dump. 

I J  ^  "  'Now,  I  know  exactly  what  I  am  worth.     If  I 

can  work  the  above  great  system,  there  is  enough 
of  me  to  make  one  of  the  writers  of  the  day ;  with- 
out it.  No  !  No ! 

" '  July  8th.  Magd.  Coll.  Spent  several  hours  in 
Reading  Gaol  yesterday.  I  hope  that  tree  will  bear 
fruits. 

" '  There  was  one  gaol-bird  reading  the  Bible  in 
Hebrew. 

"  '  July  10th.  Went  to  hear  the  assize  sermon  and 
see  the  judges.  Awful  to  behold  !  To  the  Criminal 
Court  to-day.     I  made  myself  cry  to-day  writing  a 

160 


THE   WORD   FINIS 

bit  of  my  story,  "  Never  too  Late  to  Mend."  Is  that 
a  good  sign  ?  Laura  Seymour  says  I  have  pathos. 
I  suspect  I  shall  be  the  only  one  to  snivel. 

" '  July  17th.  Went  to-day  to  the  chapel  of 
Reading  Gaol.  There  I  heard  and  saw  a  parson 
drone  the  liturgy  and  hum  a  commonplace,  dry-as- 
dust  discourse  to  two  hundred  great  culprits  and 
beginners. 

" '  Most  of  these  men's  lives  have  been  full  of 
stirring  and  thrilling  adventures.  They  are  now, 
by  the  mighty  force  of  a  system,  arrested  in  their 
course,  and  for  two  whole  hours  to-day  were  chained 
under  a  pump,  which  ought  to  pump  words  of  fire 
into  their  souls ;  but  this  pump  of  a  parson  could 
not  do  his  small  share,  so  easy  compared  with  what 
the  police  and  others  had  done  in  tracking  and 
nabbing  these  two  hundred  foxes  one  at  a  time. 
No ;  the  clerical  pump  would  not  pump,  or  could 
not. 

" '  He  droned  away  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  country 
parish  church.  He  attacked  the  difficult  souls  with 
a  buzz  of  conventional  commonplaces  that  have 
come  down  from  book  of  sermons  to  book  of 
sermons  for  the  last  century,  but  never  in  that 
century  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  man  in  passing — 
nor  ever  will. 

"  '  The  beetle's  drowsy  hum  ! 

" '  Well,  I'm  not  a  parson ;  but  I'll  write  one, 
and  say  a  few  words  in  my  quiet,  temperate  way 
about  this  sort  of  thing. 

" '  But,  la !  it  doesn't  become  me  to  complain  of 
others.  Look  at  myself !  Can't  write  "  Never  too 
Late  to  Mend,"  which  is  my  business.' " 

At  last  his  exacting  but  sympathetic  critic  was 
satisfied,  and  the  welcome  word  finis  was  written. 

A  publisher  was  found,  and  at  one  bound  Charles 
Reade  sprang  into  the  foremost  rank  of  living 
authors. 

The  critics,  M^hen  they  were  not  hostile,  were,  as 
usual,  apathetic ;  but  the  great  heart  of  the  people 
L  161 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

warmed  to  it,  and  no  wonder,  for  it  is  English  to  the 
backbone.  The  men  are  sons  of  the  soil ;  Susan 
Merton  is  as  sweet  an  Enghsh  maiden  as  ever  came 
out  of  Berkshire ;  the  lines  are  idyllic  English. 
There  is  not  a  pastoral  scene  in  the  play  either  here 
or  in  the  Antipodes  in  which  the  spectator  does  not 
"  see  green  meadows,  and  hear  the  bleating  of  sheep," 
while  the  crude  savage  of  "  Botany  Bay "  is  trans- 
formed by  the  hand  of  genius  into  the  wonderful 
creation  of  the  inimitable  Jacky. 

When  this  stining  story  leaped  from  the 
author's  brain,  it  set  all  English  hearts  aflame  with 
generous  indignation,  and  instantaneously  inaugurated 
the  Parliamentary  Cominission  which  tolled  the 
death-knell  of  the  accursed  system  it  assailed. 

Although  fifty  years  and  more  have  elapsed  since 
the  great  author  pointed  out  the  horrors  of  the  secret 
and    silent    system    and    pilloried    the    monster    at 

B- ,  still   much  remains  to  be  done,  not  only  for 

the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  wretched 
criminal,  but  for  the  protection  of  the  poor  but 
honest  debtor.  We  move  slowly  in  England,  and 
perchance  in  another  half-century  we  shall  have 
learned  to  treat  our  prisoners  like  human  beings, 
"  fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons, 
subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same 
means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and 
summer  "  as  ourselves. 

Yet  a  hundred,  or  twice  a  hundred  years  hence, 
surely,  Charles  Reade  will  be  remembered  as  the  only 
human  being,  who,  since  the  days  of  Howard  and 
Fry,  had  the  courage  to  denounce  this  infernal 
system. 

Despite  his  sympathies  with  the  peccant  Robinson 
and  the  hapless  Josephs  no  sickly  sentiment  found 
place  in  that  virile  nature,  and  were  he  to  the  fore 
now  —  now,  while  triumphant  Hooliganism  rides 
rough-shod  over  our  streets,  defying  law  and  order, 
adding  outrage  to  pillage,  and  murder  to  both — he 
would  be  heard  to  thunder  forth :  "  Wake  up ! — wake 
up  !   WJierc  is  the  Cat  ?  " 

162 


BIRTHDAY  PRESENT   TO   THE   MATER 

He  had  kept  his  word  to  his  brother — "he  had 
blossomed  late." 

"  Better  late  than  never,  old  man  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

Jubilant  as  he  was  at  this  moment,  there  was  one 
thing  wanting  to  complete  his  happiness.  His  mother 
had  never  got  over  her  disappointment  at  his  not 
being  a  Bishop.  Indeed,  when  Samuel  Wilberforce 
(who  had  been  curate  at  Checkenden  Chalk  Dene) 
became  Bishop  of  Oxford,  the  old  lady  said,  some- 
what bitterly :  "  Ah,  Charles,  you  might  have  been 
there  if  you  had  only  taken  the  trouble." 

He  sent  her  as  a  birthday  present  the  first  copy 
published  of  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend." 
Evidently  she  rejoiced  in  his  success,  for  she  said : 
"  Your  book  is  better  than  a  sermon,  and  I  am  proud 
of  my  boy,  though,  alas !  he  has  not  blossomed  into 
a  Bishop." 

The  first  edition  hung  fire,  but  with  the  second 
success  was  assured.  Edition  followed  edition  (old 
prices — a  guinea  and  a  half  the  three  volumes),  and 
before  he  had  reached  fifty  he  had  acquired  both 
fame  and  fortune. 

But — there  is  always  a  but ! 

The  Boucicault  revolutionary  regime  was  in  full 
swing.  The  "  Colleen  Bawn "  was  attracting  all 
London  and  the  country,  and  coining  money  for 
the  lucky  author,  who,  by  this  one  play,  amassed 
one  of  those  small  fortunes  which  he  spent  even 
more  rapidly  than  he  acquired  it. 

The  Duchess  had  known  him  in  America, 
hence  he  and  Reade  became  friends.  Dion  never 
hid  his  light  under  a  bushel,  and  it  was  mortifying 
to  find  that  he  had  monopolised  the  gi-ound 
while  Reade  could  not  even  get  a  look  in.  It 
was  the  absolute  torture  of  Tantalus ;  and  amidst 
his  continually-increasing  successes  as  a  novelist  he 
still  hungered  for  the  glamour  of  the  footlights  and 
the  applause  of  the  audience,  and  was  never  happy  out 
of  the  theatre.  With  this  feeling  ever  dominant, 
circumstances  now  occurred  which  were  pecuharly 
aggravating.     The   great  and  continually  increasing 

163 


LOOKING   BACKWARD 

popularity  of  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend " 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  minor  theatre  drama- 
tists, and,  without  saying  "  with  your  leave  "  or  "  by 
your  leave,"  various  unauthorised  dramatisations  of 
the  novel  were  produced  in  town  and  country,  which 
crowded  the  theatres  nightly,  and  replenished  the 
managerial  coffers,  while  not  a  cent  ever  found  its 
way  to  the  pocket  of  the  original  author.  To  a 
less  irascible  man  this  would  have  been  annoying 
enough ;  but  it  incensed  Reade  almost  to  madness. 
He  had  given  his  best  work  to  the  theatre  ;  had 
been  repeatedly  baffled  and  defeated  ;  had  lost  time 
and  money — and  yet,  on  the  very  first  occasion  when 
he  had  "  struck  oil,"  a  horde  of  pirates  and  plunderers 
rushed  in,  robbed  him  with  impunity,  and  made 
heaps  of  money  and  kudos  by  the  nefarious  trans- 
o  action.  Justly  angered  at  this  iniquitous  state  of 
affairs,  he  commenced  the  prolonged  litigation  which 
ultimately  settled  the  question  of  dramatic  copyiight 
^   as  it  now  stands. 

The  judges  had  decided,  in  the  first  instance,  that 
the  author  had  no  exclusive  right  to  the  dramatisa- 
tion of  his  own  novel.  Always  baffled,  often  beaten, 
Reade  was  about  to  abandon  the  fight  in  despair, 
when  Mrs  Seymour  suggested  to  him  that  "It  is 
Never  too  Late  to  Mend "  was  (except  the  prison 
episode)  founded  upon  his  own  dead  and  buried 
drama  "  Gold."  "  Now,"  said  the  shrewd  little 
woman,  "the  law  which  permits  the  pirates  to  rob 
you  of  your  novel  surely  will  not  allow  them  to 
steal  your  play  1 " 

Acting  on  this  happy  inspiration  he  changed 
his  front,  and  commenced  proceedings  anew — not, 
indeed,  for  compensation  (to  which  he  was  justly 
entitled  for  past  robbery),  but  for  protection  in 
the  future,  by  making  his  rights  absolute  in  the 
drama  of  "  Gold." 

The  result  was  that  the  pi:'ates  were  shut  up, 
spurious  versions  of  the  play  we  ^  inhibited,  and  a 
verdict  given  which  laid  down  the  law :  "  that  if 
an  author  will  take  the  trouble  to  dramatise,  however 

164 


End  of  Book  the  First 


■^t-^t^ 


THE   IDIOTIC   LAW   OF   COPYRIGHT 

crudely,  his   narrative   prior    to    its    publication,  his 
rights  are  absolute." 

Such  was  the  law  laid  down  in  the  case  of  Reade 
V.  Conquest,  but  the  specious  decision  of  Mr  Justice 
StirHng  in  re  the  piratical  dramatisation  of  Mrs 
Burnett's  stoiy,  *'  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,"  left  the 
matter  more  confused  and  more  confounded  than 
ever. 

Is   it  too   much   to   expect    that    the   collective      '       / 
wisdom  of  English  authors  shall  draft  a  short  Bill, 
clearly   defining   and   making   absolute   the   author's      /,4*&  «4.« 
right  in  his  own  property,  and  that  some  sympathetic      /         . 
M.P.  will  undertake  to  pilot  it  through  the  House    '■^-"^■hr^ 
next  session  ? 

Although  successful  in  pillorying  the  pupates  the 
victory  was  a  barren  one. 

In  speaking  of  it  long  after,  he  said  :  *'  I  shut  the 
thieves  up,  it's  true,  but  couldn't  make  'em  disgorge 
the  plunder. 

'*  Then  when  I  wrote  my  own  play,  had  it  printed 
and  sent  round  to  every  manager  in  London,  not  one 
of  the  blockheads  would  even  look  at  it.  For  seven 
long  years  it  lay  on  the  shelf,  and  might  have  been 
lying  there  now  if  you " 

Then  he  said  things  pleasant  to  hear,  pleasanter 
still  to  recollect,  but,  "  On  their  own  merits  modest 
men  are  dumb, "  hence  I  forbear  to  repeat  them, 
and  devote  the  remainder  of  this  narrative  to  the 
record  of  our  twenty  years'  intimacy. 


165 


Book  the  Second 
-IT   IS   NEVER  TOO   LATE   TO   MEND  ' 


"  Thus  mem'ry  oft  in  dreams  sublime 

Takes  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over. 
Thus  weeping  looks  through  the  waves  of  time 
And  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover." 


Book  the  Second 
IT   IS   NEVER   TOO   LATE   TO   MEND 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE    PLAY — "THE    PLAY's   THE   THING"        .       169 

II.    DEFEAT    CHANGED    TO   VICTORY         .  .183 

III.    TRANSFERRED    TO    TOWN        .  .  .       201 


riwto  by  Alfred  EUis] 


JOHN   COLEMAN 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  PLAY— "THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING!" 

Rehearsals  at  Leeds  —  Author  and  Manager  agree  to  differ — It 
clears  the  Air  —  A  domestic  Calamity  at  Rehearsal  —  Exit 
George  —  "  Double "  gets  us  over  one  Difficulty  —  The 
irate  Author  lands  us  in  another — The  Olive-Branch  — 
The  Drama  v.  the  local  Press  —  The  London  Press  —  The 
Tykes  speak  their  Mind  —  Banquet  to  the  Author  —  An 
artistic  Triumph  but  a  financial  Failure — The  Future  of  the 
Play  in  Danger  —  Loss  upon  Loss  —  Threatened  With- 
drawal— Despair  of  the  Author 

"The  obsolete  drama  of  "Gold,"  which  in  my 
boyish  arrogance  I  had  disdained,  now  brought 
me  into  immediate  communication  with  the  author 
of  "It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,"  and  led 
to  the  intimacy  which  existed  to  the  day  of  his 
death. 

In  the  relations  in  which  we  were  placed  there 
was,  mdeed,  frequent  friction,  but  that  was  of  the 
sHghtest  and  most  temporary  character,  and  no 
more  than  might  naturally  be  expected  from  two 
men  of  equally  impetuous  temperaments  and 
different  opinions.  But,  except  at  our  very  first 
rehearsals,  we  scarcely  had  the  shghtest  difference  on 
the  subject  of  the  management  of  tha  stage — over 
which,  in  every  instance,  I  exercised  complete  control, 
arranging  and  inventing  the  entire  stage  business  of 
"  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,"  and  other  pieces, 
exactly  as  they  now  exist. 

Prior  to  Reade's  arrival  in  Leeds,  I  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  have  half-a-dozen  preliminary 
rehearsals,  during  which  I  had  carefully  and 
elaborately     arranged     the     dramatic     action,     the 

169 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

music,  and  the  proper  rendition  of  the  text, 
in  which  I  insisted  on  the  company  being  letter 
perfect. 

I  had  hoped  by  these  means  to  have  provided 
him  with  an  agreeable  surprise.  Alas  I  it  proved 
to  be  quite  the  reverse. 

He  had  been  so  accustomed  to  the  slipshod 
system,  during  which  the  actors  sprawled  listlessly 
about  the  stage,  comparing  their  parts  the  first  week, 
squabbling  over  situations  the  next,  always  loose  in 
the  text  until  the  last,  that  when  he  found  the  people 
perfect  in  the  words,  and  going  straight  on  without 
the  aid  of  a  prompter,  he  called  a  halt. 

"  I  understood  these  rehearsals  were  to  be  subject 
to  my  approval ! "  he  growled. 

"  So  they  are  ! "  I  replied.  "  Our  prehminary 
rehearsals  were  intended  to  spare  you  time  and 
trouble.  Permit  us  to  go  on,  and  when  we  fall 
short  of  your  wishes  say  so." 

*'  But  it  is  all  so  strange — so  unusual." 
"  To  you — but  not  to  me,  sir." 
"  Well,  well,  go  on." 

"  Don't  hesitate  to  stop  us  when  we  are  wrong." 
"  I  sha'n't  hesitate  !  "  he  replied,  sharply. 
His  evident  irascibility  somewhat  embarrassed  us, 
but   our   earnestness,  and  our  firmness  in   the  text, 
and  the  generally  accurate  reading  of  it,  left  little 
room  for  finding  fault. 

Just  as  we  had  finished  the  first  act  a  telegram 
was  handed  to  George  Fielding,  who  appeared  dis- 
concerted, and  immediately  disappeared  in  gi'eat 
agitation. 

When  the  scene  was  set  for  the  prison  act,  the 
author  began  to  let  off  steam. 

He  wanted  a  treadmill  at  back,  with  prisoners 
ascending  and  keeping  it  in  motion. 

I  had  taken  the  trouble  to  go  to  Birmingham 
and  to  Ainley,  and  found  that  in  neither  one  place 
nor  the  other  could  a  view  of  the  treadmill  be 
possible  from  any  of  the  cells  in  which  the  prisoners 
were  immured.     This,  coupled  with  my  rooted  aver- 

170 


GEORGE    FIELDING   NON   EST 

sion  to  the  revolting  realism  of  the  incident,  decided 
me  to  omit  it.  He  alleged  that  I  was  bound  by 
contract  to  provide  it.  I  maintained  that  I  was  not ; 
and  on  reference  to  the  contract  it  was  found  I  was 
right.     Victory  number  one  for  me. 

The  front  scene,  however,  was  really  an  agree- 
able surprise  to  the  author.  Instead  of  an  ordinary 
"  drop  "-scene  there  was  a  "  set,"  including  a  real 
practical  window  to  the  governor's  office,  in  which 
the  ruffian  Hawes  sat  installed. 

When  we  came  to  the  double-action  scene  repre- 
senting the  cells,  in  one  of  which  the  wretched 
Robinson  is  confined,  and  the  other  in  which  the 
poor  boy  Josephs  is  immured  and  done  to  death,  I 
asked  Reade  to  go  round  and  see  it  from  the  front, 
begging  him  to  let  us  finish  it  without  interruption, 
and  to  make  any  suggestions  or  alteration  he  desired 
afterwards. 

At  the  end  of  the  act  he  came  round,  pale  and 
breathless,  mopping  his  head. 

"  Tremendous  ! "  he  gasped.  "  But  will  tfiey 
stand  it — that's  the  question  ?  I  never  taste  spirits — 
hate  the  very  smell  of  the  beastly  stuff! — but,  for 
God's  sake,  let  me  have  a  spoonful  of  brandy ! " 

There  were  breakers  ahead  in  the  next  act,  for 
George  Fielding  was  non  est,  and  no  one  had  seen 
him. 

We  waited  for  half-an-hoiu-.  Then  the  prompter 
had  to  read  the  part,  which  put  us  all  out.  How- 
ever, we  got  to  the  end  of  the  act  as  well  as  we 
could,  and  then  made  a  dash  for  the  last,  getting 
through  the  first  scene  without  interruption. 

In  the  next,  however,  when  the  cue  was  given 
for  George  Fielding's  advance,  the  truant  turned  up 
and  strode  on  to  the  stage.  A  strange,  weird  figure 
he  looked.  His  face  was  pale  as  death,  his  eyes  as 
if  about  to  burst  forth  in  flames.  Evidently  he  had 
fallen  in  the  gutter  ;  for  his  coat  was  all  over  sludge, 
his  boots  and  trousers  splashed  up  to  the  knees. 
Taking  off  his  hat,  he  made  a  comprehensive  bow 
to    everybody,    then    smiled,    and    remained    silent. 

171 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

There  was  a  dead  stand-still.  The  prompter 
prompted,  so  did  I.  George  merely  shook  his  head 
and  smiled  again. 

"  Go  on  I "  I  whispered,  impatiently. 

He  bowed  again,  and  gasped :  "  Domestic 
calamity,  gentlemen,  domestic  calamity  ! " 

*'No — no,"  interrupted  the  prompter,  "not  a  bit 
like  it." 

"  Give  him  the  word  I "  said  Reade,  impatiently. 
"The  word  is " 

"Domestic  calamity  —  gentlemen  —  domestic 
calamity,"  continued  George,  still  smiling. 

Although  puzzled  as  to  whether  this  was  drink  or 
dementia,  or  both  combined,  I  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  go  on  with  tlie  part. 

Apparently  he  did  not  comprehend,  for  the  only 
answer  I  could  get  was,  "domestic  calamity." 

"  Mad  1 "  whispered  Reade. 

"  Call  a  cab  and  get  him  home,"  said  I,  to  the 
call-boy. 

We  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  George 
to  leave  the  stage.  When  my  brother  and  JNlr 
Towers,  our  stage  manager,  had,  with  still  greater 
difficulty,  coaxed  him  into  the  cab  at  the  stage-door 
the  poor  fellow  thrust  into  my  hands  a  crumpled 
telegram,  still  muttering : 

"  Domestic  calamity,  governor ! — domestic  cala- 
mity ! " 

Smoothing  it  out  in  the  porter's  lodge  I  read ; 

"Emily  has  bolted  with  that  scoundrel  Ventnor 
to  New  York.  They  sailed  last  night  by  the 
Eti^uria  from  Queenstown." 

Then  came  a  sound  like  the  shriek  of  a  wounded 
horse — a  piercing  cry  of  "  Em'ly  ! " — a  scuffle  in  the 
cab,  and  a  dead  silence. 

"  John,"  whispered  my  brother,  "  he  has  fallen  in 
a  fit." 

Mounting  the  box  I  told  the  cabby  to  drive 
quickly  to  the  Infirmary.     I  might  have  spared  him 

172 


«  DOUBLE,  DOUBLE,  TOIL  AND  TROUBLE  " 

the  trouble ;  for,  when  we  got  there,  we  found  our 
poor  friend's  troubles  were  over ! 

Regret  for  the  dead  doesn't  absolve  one  from 
duty  to  the  living,  so  we  drove  to  the  Queen's 
Hotel,  where  Reade  awaited  us. 

When  he  learned  what  had  occurred  he  merely 
said,  "  Poor  fellow  !     Gone  to  Heaven,  I  trust.     Let 
us  hope   that   damnable  creature  and  her  paramour 
have  gone  to — ahem  ! — the  other  place  !  " 
To  which  we  replied  with  a  devout  "  Amen  I  " 

"  What's  to  be  done  now  ?  "  he  inquired. 
"  If  you   don't   object   to  a   '  double,'   there'll   be 
no  difficulty,"  I  replied. 

"  What  do  you  propose  ?  " 

"  My  brother,  here,  who  plays  Eden,  will  take 
George ;  and  Mr  Towers,  who  does  Levi,  who  is  not 
on  in  the  second  act,  can  easily  double  Eden,  who 
is  only  on  in  that  act. 

"A  capital  idea." 

'•  Excuse  me,  then, — till  to-morrow  at  eleven." 

"  At  eleven.     Good-night,  gentlemen." 

In  a  couple  of  days  we  had  got  over  our  diffi- 
culties, and  all  went  smoothly  till  we  came  to  our 
final  rehearsal.  Reade  had  taken  an  aversion  (an  un- 
reasonable one !)  to  the  old  gentleman  who  played 
Farmer  Merton,  and  kept  continually  nagging 
at  him  till  the  poor  old  boy  got  nervous  and 
hysterical,  and  ultimately  broke  down  in  an  im- 
portant speech  in  the  last  scene.  Then  the  irate 
author  said  something  which  I  prefer  not  to  recall. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  Mr  Merton  came 
forward,  and  placing  his  part  in  the  hands  of  the 
stage-manager  said — "  Permit  me  to  resign  my  part, 
I  am  only  too  well  aware  I  am  not  a  great  actor, 
but  I  am  a  man !  I  have  hved  all  these  years 
without  being  subject  to  insult,  and  it's  too  late 
to  begin  now."  So  saying  he  took  off  his  hat,  bowed, 
and  left  the  stage. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  on  ? "  demanded  Reade, 
irritably. 

173 


IT   IS   NEVER  TOO   I.ATE   TO   MEND 

"  Because  we  can't  unless  you  cut  out  Merton  ? " 
replied  the  stage-manager,  brusquely. 

"  The  rehearsal  is  dismissed  for  half-an-hour," 
said  I ;  "  and  please  ask  Mr  Merton  to  come  to  my 
room." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  dissuade  the  old 
gentleman  from  sending  in  his  resignation.  I  might 
as  well  have  spoken  to  a  tombstone. 

'"  You  know,  sir,  I  would  carry  on  a  banner  for 
you.  I  will  do  anything  for  you — but  this.  You've 
known  me  for  twenty  years  and  never  known  me 
give  or  take  an  insult." 

Finding  the  actor  obdurate  I  tackled  the  author ; 
but  when  I  suggested  an  apology,  he  fired  up. 
Fortunately,  at  this  moment  Mrs  Coleman  came 
upon  the  stage,  and  changed  the  tone  of  the  con- 
versation, while  Reade  walked  out  of  the  theatre 
with  her  over  Leeds  Bridge. 

Meanwhile,  Towers  tried  to  induce  one  or  other 
of  the  small  people  to  come  to  the  rescue,  but  their 
sympathies  were  entirely  with  Merton  and  one  and 
all  refused. 

The  half-hour  expired — five  minutes — ten  minutes. 
Then  Reade  walked  upon  the  stage,  and,  advancing 
with  dignity,  accosted  me.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  it 
appears  I  let  slip  a  hasty  expression  just  now. 
I'm  sorry  for  it."  Then,  lifting  his  hat  and  addres- 
sing Merton,  he  continued,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

Poor  old  Merton  took  the  proffered  hand,  bending 
low  over  it.     Then  Reade,  brightening  up,  resumed : 

"  And  now,  I  suppose,  we  may  finish  the  re- 
hearsal." 

This  difficulty  surmounted,  we  reached  the  event- 
ful night,  which  reminds  me  how  imperfectly  I  kept 
a  record  of  it. 

Some  proud  blood  which  I  inherit  made  me 
somewhat  disdainful  of  the  artifices  which  have 
since  become  part  and  parcel  of  the  managerial 
stock-in-trade, — hence,  the  history  of  the  'premiere 
of  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend  "  has  never  been 
written  until  this  day. 

174 


riioto  by  Bertin,  Sriijliion] 


MISS    GRACE    LEIGH 

(MRS  JOHN   COLEMAN) 
THE   ORIGINAL   SUSAN   MERTON 


THE   FIRST   NIGHT 


At  that  particular  period  all  Yorkshire  could  boast 
but  one  daily  paper — the  LiCCch  Mercurij,  an  im- 
portant sectarifui  journal  with  great  influence,  and 
a  rabid  hostility  to  the  drama  as  an  art,  and  to 
the  theatre  as  an  institution. 

It  was  currently  rumoured,  and  indeed  believed, 
that  this  hostility  arose  in  the  first  instance  from 
an  hereditary  feud,  commencing  with  the  ancestor 
of  the  proprietor  of  the  Mercurij,  one  Baines- — who, 
a  hundred  years  ago,  printed  the  play-bills  and  kept 
the  keys  of  the  theatre — and  the  eccentric  and  re- 
nowned ivipresario  Tate  Wilkinson,  who  built  it. 

The  legend  ran  that  Wilkinson  withdrew  his 
custom  and  the  custody  of  the  theatre  :  that  Baines 
resented  it,  that  they  became  mortal  enemies,  and 
hence  there  was  a  hereditary  feud  between  the 
proprietors  of  the  Mercury  and  the  proprietors  of 
the  theatre. 

That  a  quarrel  may  have  occurred  between  them 
is  possible :  the  rest  is  sheer  nonsense.  The  hostility 
of  the  Mercury  to  the  drama  arose  from  mere  sec- 
tarian bias  and  puritanical  prejudice  against  the  art 
which  amuses,  enlightens,  and  refines. 

Whatever  the  cause  of  "  this  effect  defective  "  it 
is  quite  certain  that  the  Baines  family  did  not  dis- 
dain to  earn  "  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness " 
from  theatrical  advertisements,  which  were  inserted 
amongst  others  of  a  more  questionable  character. 
Yet,  although  they  gave  graphic  accounts  of  local 
prize-fights,  and  other  delectable  entertainments, 
they  never  condescended  to  sully  their  pages  by 
noticing  the  existence  of  the  theatre.  Hence,  the 
only  existent  account  of  \\\^  'premiere  of  "  It  is  Never 
too  Late  to  Mend "  appeared  in  the  special  corre- 
spondence of  the  Era  which  is  here  quoted  in  full. 


(K^'^td^ 


Production  of  Mr  Charles  Reade's  New  Play 
OF  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,"  at  the 
Leeds  Theatre  Royal 


Mr  Boucicault's  play  of  '  Arrah  na  Pogue '  was 
175 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

first  produced  in  Dublin ;  Mr  Watts  Phillips's  last 
work  first  saw  the  light  in  Liverpool ;  and  now  INIr 
Charles  Reade  selects  Leeds,  of  all  places  in  the 
world,  for  the  first  representation  of  his  new  drama. 

"  Many  circumstances  combined  to  invest  the  pro- 
duction of  this  play  with  unusual  interest. 

"  It  will  be  within  the  recollection  of  our  readers 
that,  immediately  after  the  remarkable  success  of 
Mr  Reade's  entrancing  book,  a  number  of  dramatic 
adaptors  constructed  from  it  a  variety  of  dramas, 
which  were  acted  at  the  principal  theatres,  attracting 
large  sums  of  money  for  the  managers,  though  not 
one  farthing  accrued  to  the  original  author.  Some  of 
these  gentlemen  appear,  however,  to  have  been 
oblivious  to  the  fact  that,  some  years  before,  Mr 
Reade  had  produced  a  drama  at  Drury  Lane  called 
'  Gold,'  which  was,  in  fact,  the  ground-work  of  the 
present  story.  The  existence  of  this  play  enabled 
him  to  put  a  stop  to  the  representation  of  all 
unauthorised  adaptations  of  his  work.  It  then 
naturally  occurred  to  the  author  of  '  Masks  and 
Faces,'  '  Two  Loves  and  a  Life,'  etc.  that  he  was 
not  altogether  disqualified  from  adapting  his  own 
story  to  the  stage.  Having  done  so,  he  looked  round 
for  a  company  in  London  fitted  to  adequately  repre- 
sent it.  Failing  to  find  one  he  decided  to  try  the 
experiment  in  the  provinces ;  and  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  a  manager  of  sufficient  enterprise  to 
produce  the  work,  and  actors  of  sufficient  ability  to 
embody  the  characters.  Hence,  the  present  pro- 
duction, the  result  of  which  must  certainly  have 
exceeded  the  author's  expectations :  inasmuch  as  a 
success  more  brilliant  and  complete  has  seldom 
been  achieved  anjnvhere. 

"  Of  the  drama  itself,  we  may  say  that  it  is,  without 
exception,  the  best  type  of  English  rural  life  the 
stage  has  yet  given  to  us.  It  takes  but  little  stretch 
of  the  imagination  '  to  see  green  meadows  and  hear 
the  bleating  of  sheep.'  Good  parts  abound  ;  indeed, 
there  are  so  many  that  the  resources  of  any  company 
must  be  severely  taxed  to  do  them  justice.     Each 

176 


SPIRIT   OF   THE   PRESS 

act  develops  a  new,  interesting,  and  strongly  con- 
trasted interest :  the  simple  pathos  of  George 
Fielding's  early  struggles  serving  only  to  invest  the 
gloom  of  the  prison  with  a  deeper  interest ;  while 
the  romantic  episode  in  Australia  makes  the  heart 
yearn  toward  home  and  fatherland,  where  the  story 
ends  as  happily  as  it  commenced  sadly. 

"  This  is  not  an  '  apex '  play.  Now,  it  is  well 
known  that  Mr  Coleman  is  an  '  apex '  actor — that  is 
to  say,  he  is  one  of  those  actors  who  monopolise 
the  best  part  in  every  piece ;  and  it  is  generally 
imderstood  that  it  is  on  this  account  he  has 
hitherto  confined  to  the  provinces  abihties  which 
would  be  sure  to  meet  with  a  much  higher  ap- 
preciation in  London.  We  were,  therefore,  not  a 
little  delighted  to  find  that,  for  once,  this  gentleman 
had  condescended  to  act  with  more  self-abnegation 
than  usually  pertains  to  him,  by  assuming  the 
character  of  Robinson.  Nor  do  we  think  his  reputa- 
tion will  suffer  thereby.  It  ought  not ;  for  he  threw 
himself,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  performance  ;  indeed, 
he  played  several  parts  in  one.  Executing  with  vigour 
the  author's  whole  design,  he  was  by  turns  mercurial, 
dejected,  savage,  desperate,  and  penitent.  It  is  worth 
observing,  too,  that  with  fine  discrimination  he  made 
his  many  changes  in  dress  and  deportment  mark  the 
gradual  improvement  in  the  penitent  thief's  moral 
character.  Mr  Mathews  was  earnest  and  intelligent 
as  Meadows,  but  a  trifle  too  slow  and  conventional. 
Mr  Edward  Coleman  lacks  inches  of  the  heroic 
standard  :  but  if  actors  were  measured  by  their  intelli- 
gence he  would  be  six  feet  high.  This  young  man 
has  a  handsome  face  and  a  sympathetic  voice,  and 
really  played  George  Fielding  with  a  happy  mixture  of 
manliness  and  tenderness.  Mr  Walmsley,  late  stage- 
manager  of  the  Royalty,  played  Crawley  (without 
doubt  the  great  part  of  the  piece,  and  evidently 
written  for  poor  Robson),  and  although  we  cannot 
congratulate  him  upon  the  success  of  the  delirium 
tremens  scenes,  still  he  achieved  a  decided  success.  Mr 
Loome  gave  weight  and  dignity  to  a  most  important, 
M  177 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

though  revolting  part.  A  young  actor  named  Henry, 
whom  we  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  so  prominently 
placed  before,  acted  William  Fielding,  and  won  one 
of  the  heartiest  rounds  of  applause  in  the  whole  play 
by  the  manUness  with  which  he  spoke  one  speech  in 
the  first  act.  Mr  Calhaem  (of  Drury  Lane,  the 
Lyceum,  AdelpKi,  etc.)  enacted  Jacky,  the  aboriginal 
Australian,  with  even  more  than  his  usual  skill.  A 
more  happy  embodiment  of  the  author's  idea  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive.  The  only  thing  to  be  regretted 
is  that  the  part  is  so  short,  Jacky  appearing  only  in 
the  third  act.  Short  as  it  is,  Mr  Calhaem's  reputa- 
tion can  rest  on  no  firmer  basis  than  this  admirable 
performance. 

"  INIr  Johnson  Towers  (formerly  manager  of  the 
Victoria  Theatre)  did  double  duty :  appearing  as 
Isaac  Levy  (the  Jew)  and  Mr  Eden  (the  young 
clergyman),  and  succeeded  not  only  in  impersonating 
two  entirely  different  embodiments,  but  in  imparting 
a  distinct  individuality  to  each. 

"  Miss  Clara  Dillon,  as  Josephs,  gave  convincing 
proof  that  she  is  worthy  the  name  she  bears :  Bel- 
phegor's  daughter  has  her  father's  natural  gift  of  pathos 
and  her  mother's  charm  of  naivete. 

"  The  part  of  Susan  JNIerton  is  but  a  sketch  ;  yet  in 
this  sketch  centres  the  whole  feminine  interest  of  the 
piece.  It  could  not  have  had  a  more  charming 
representative  than  Miss  Grace  Leigh,  who  always 
excels  in  parts  where  pathos  and  womanly  feeling 
predominate. 

"The  minor  parts  were  all  carefully  and  intelli- 
gently rendered ;  and  the  entire  dramatic  action 
evinced  the  presence  of  a  master  hand :  the  whole 
of  the  piece  being  produced  under  the  superintend- 
ence of  Mr  Coleman ;  while  the  last  three  or  four 
rehearsals  had  the  advantage  of  the  personal  super- 
vision of  the  author  himself. 

"The  scenery  by  Mr  A^inning,  the  young  artist 
of  the  establishment,  is  admirably  designed  and 
charmingly  executed.  Each  act  comprises  at  least 
one  set,  to  insure  the  completeness  of  which  all  the 

178 


READE  AND  THE  LEEDS  LOINERS 

wings  and  flats  have  been  removed,  and  the  scenes 
are  thoroughly  built  up.  The  effect  is  as  novel  as 
it  is  striking. 

"We  may  congratulate  the  author  on  the  ex- 
cellence of  his  play,  and  the  manager  not  only  on 
the  skill  and  artistic  ability  displayed  on  its  pro- 
duction but  on  the  prospect  of  a  great  commercial 
success. 

"  On  Ash- Wednesday  Mr  Coleman  entertained  a 
numerous  party  of  literary  and  artistic  friends,  in- 
cluding some  of  the  principal  members  of  his 
company,  at  the  Queen's  Hotel,  for  the  purpose  of 
congratulating  Mr  Reade  on  the  triumph  of  the 
piece.  The  health  of  the  distinguished  guest  was 
proposed  in  a  very  felicitous  manner  by  Mr  Coleman, 
and  Mr  Reade  responded  in  eloquent  and  feeling 
terms,  stating,  in  conclusion,  that  he  did  not  really 
know  a  theatre  in  the  country  where  his  play  could 
have  been  better  acted." — From  the  IlJi'ci,  12th 
March  1865. 

"  The  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the 
battle  to  the  strong."  Hence,  despite  the  favour- 
able reception  of  the  play,  we  never  acted  for  a 
single  week  to  our  current  expenses  during  the 
entire  run  at  Leeds. 

The  fact  was,  the  piratical  version  had  preceded 
us  by  only  a  month  or  two  at  the  minor  theatre, 
and  had  taken  the  wind  out  of  our  sails. 

The  work,  however,  made  its  mark,  and  the 
audience  received  the  author,  as  well  as  the  actors, 
with  an  enthusiasm  beyond  description. 

Reade  had  many  triumphs  afterwards,  but  never 
one  which  left  a  more  vividly  pleasant  recollection 
than  the  demonstration  on  that  occasion. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  an  object  of 
popular  enthusiasm,  and  he  exulted  in  it  as  though 
he  were  a  very  boy ! 

Years  after  he  was  wont  to  say :  "  You  play- 
actors didn't  have  it  all  your  own  way  then !  No, 
sir !     The   Tykes  remembered  there  was  an   author 

179 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

as  well  as  an  actor,  and  that  if  there  had  been  no 
author  there  would  have  been  no  actors  ! 

When  Kean's  wife  inquired  what  Lord  Essex 
said  of  his  '  Shylock,'  on  his  first  night  at  Drury 
Lane,  the  little  man  replied  :  "  D — n  Lord  Essex  ! 
The  pit  rose  at  me ! "  But  on  my  first  night  at 
Leeds  the  pit  did  more !  They  not  only  "  rose  at 
me"  at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  but  at  the  end 
of  the  play  the  whole  house  "  rose  "  in  a  roar  which 
shook  the  building  from  its  base  to  the  summit,  till 
I  thought  the  roof  would  have  tumbled  down  about 
my  ears !  Ah !  those  Leeds  "  loiners "  know  a 
good  thing  when  they  see  it,  and  they  know  how 
to  applaud,  too,  when  they  give  their  minds  to  it ! 

The  "  loiners "  were  not  always  in  so  genial  a 
mood;  indeed,  they  were  "nothing  if  not  critical." 

A  certain  London  tragedian,  more  distinguished 
for  his  bulk  than  his  brains,  was  trying  Claude 
Melnotte  for  the  first  time  before  them.  The  play 
was  going  about  as  badly  as  it  could  go  when  it 
occurred  to  the  "  star's  "  "  business  manager  "  to  give 
the  performance  a  fillip.  So,  planting  himself,  his 
bill  inspector,  and  baggage  man  at  the  back  of  the 
pit,  when  the  curtain  fell  they  began  to  sing  out 
loudly  for  Claude.  Instead  of  following  suit,  the  pit 
"rose"  not  at  the  actor  but  at  the  "business 
manager."  Turning  their  backs  to  the  stage,  they 
roared:  "Shut  up!  We've  seen  this  play  acted 
here." 
{Exeunt "  business  manager  "  and  assistants,  in  a  hurry.) 

I  myself  have  received  one  or  two  awkward 
rebuffs  at  their  hands. 

At  one  period  of  my  career  my  efforts  were 
principally  confined  to  the  Shakespearean  drama ;  but 
one  can't  always  be  acting  Shakespeare,  so  I  wrote 
a  play  for  myself  of  a  sensational  character,  which 
for  a  time  had  considerable  vogue. 

While  acting  it  for  a  week  in  one  of  the  principal 
Yorkshire  to^ns  I  strolled  into  the  market-place  on 
market  day,  and  stumbled  upon  a  cheap  Jack  selling 
a  Shakespeare  and  a  bust  of  the  bard. 

180 


CHEAP  JACK,   AND  "AFTER  DARK!  " 

"  Look  here,  lads  ! "  he  bawled.  "  Here's  t'  buick 
o'  buicks  and  t'  mon  o'  men  I  No  Yorkshire  lad's 
cottage  is  compleat  wi'out  t'  buick  and  t'  bard. 
T'  buick  and  t'  mon  were  not  for  an  aage  but  for 
aw'  toime !  Ah  I "  (catching  sight  of  me)  "  here's 
a  chap  can  tell  ye  mair  aboawt  boath  on  'em  in  a 
minit  than  oi  can  in  a  month  !  Luick  heare,  Measter 
John,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  bust,  *'  that  is, 
if  thou  canst  luick  an  OAvd  friend  i'd  feace,  wi'out 
a  blush  1  Luick  heare  at  God -inspired  chap  wi'd 
bald  nob  who  made  thee  what  thou  art,  and  who 
thou'st  dropped  like  a  hot  tater  for  thy  beastly, 
blood  -  and  -  thunder,  penny  plain  and  tuppence 
colored  sweepin  o'  owd  Tommy  Wild's  show  at 
Hunslet  fair.  I  wonder  thou'st  not  ashamed  o' 
thysen  I " 

I  was,  and  bolted,  leaving  the  orator  at  it  1 

Upon  another  occasion  I  had  produced  Bouci- 
cault's  latest  sensation  "  After  Dark,"  not  with  my 
own  company  (which  I  had  sent  to  Birmingham),  but 
with  the  Birmingham  company,  a  very  excellent  one, 
comprising  Miss  Bella  Pateman  and  her  husband,  Mr, 
Harry  Paultoh,  aiTd'TTiumlber  of  competent  actors, 
who  subsequently  became  persons  of  importance  in 
London. 

The  piece  was  an  awful  failure,  death-stricken  the 
first  night. 

I  sat  in  the  pit  when  the  railway  sensation 
occurred. 

The  train  went  thundering  by,  and  was  received 
with  a  volley  of  execrations. 

When  your  Tyke  execrates  you  can  hear  him  I 

That  sound  was  the  death-knell  of  the  piece, 
and  meant  a  loss  of  three  or  four  hundred  pounds 
for  the  luckless  manager. 

I  suppose  I  didn't  look  particularly  elate. 

A  pitite  coming  out  caught  sight  of  me,  and, 
by  way  of  consolation,  remarked :  "  Eh,  John  lad, 
thou'st  mayst  well  luick  asheamed  o'  thysen.  Yon 
sort  o'  muck  may  do  for  Lunnun,  but  t'wunna  do 
for  Hunslet  Laane  !  " 

181 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

Although  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  JNIend  "  "  did 
for  Hunslet  Laane,"  the  receipts  didn't  do  for  me ; 
and  having  lost  as  much  as  I  could  afford,  and 
more,  upon  the  play,  it  had  to  be  withdrawn. 
For  both  our  sakes  I  would  not  acknowledge  a 
defeat,  so,  in  order  to  wind  up  the  affair  with  eclat, 
I  gave  the  dinner,  before  referred  to,  to  Reade  at  the 
Queen's  Hotel,  and  invited  upwards  of  a  hundred 
friends  to  meet  him.  The  toast  of  his  health,  which 
I  proposed  in  the  most  genial  terms  I  could  im- 
provise, was  drank  with  great  effusion.  Although 
public  speaking  was  not  one  of  his  accomplishments 
he  responded  in  a  very  appropriate  and  happy  manner. 
But  neither  play — nor  players — nor  banquet  sufficed 
to  open  the  doors  of  the  Adelphi  or  the  Princess's, 
and  the  dubious  success  of  "  Gold  "  stopped  the  way 
at  Old  Drury.  It  was  evident  we  could  not  get 
into  London  for  months. 

Reade  was  in  despair.  The  outlook  was  hopeless, 
and  the  piece  seemed  doomed  to  certain  death. 


182 


CHAPTER  II 

DEFEAT  CHANGED   TO   VICTORY 

To  Manchester  by  the  Mail — A  Celebrity  of  Cottonopolis — "The 
Man  with  the  Marble  Heart,"  otherwise  Mr  "  Mun  -  be - 
Done  " — Charles  Mathew's  famous  Visit  to  Lancaster  Castle 
leads  to  the  Law-Suit  "Coleman  v.  Knowles."  —  We  buiy 
the  Hatchet  over  a  Bottle  and  a  Haunch  of  Mutton,  and 
agree  to  transfer  "  It  is  Never  too  Late "  from  Leeds  to  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Manchester,  where  it  achieves  a  great 
Success — Tour  of  the  Provinces  terminates  in  a  "  Blaze  of 
Triumph  "  in  the  Land  of  Joseph  the  Great,  and  the  City  of 
the  Model  Prison,  in  which  Josephs  was  done  to  Death — 
Defeat  of  Lord  Dundreary  by  Leah,  which  leads  to  another 
Law-Suit,  in  which  we  are  non-suited 

The  failure  was  inexplicable  in  face  of  the  remark- 
able enthusiasm  displayed  nightly  by  the  scanty 
audiences. 

It  was  by  no  means  pleasant  for  the  author — 
and  very  unpleasant  for  the  manager.  The  piece 
had  been  produced  at  considerable  expense :  the 
monetary  loss  alone,  exclusive  of  my  services, 
amounted  to  upwards  of  £1000,  besides  which  (a 
most  unusual  thing  for  me  at  that  period)  I  had 
the  mortification  of  playing  to  bad  houses,  which 
was  most  compromising  to  my  reputation. 

I  could,  however,  cut  my  loss  and  have  done 
with  it. 

AVith  Reade  it  was  a  different  matter. 

"  If  it  gets  into  the  air  that  the  piece  is  a  '  frost ' 
it's  bottled  up,  and  those  d — d  asses,  the  London 
managers,  will  never  look  at  it !  What's  to  be 
done  ? "  he  ruefully  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "  I  only  know  I've 
done  all  I  could  to  make  it  a  success,  and  have  lost 
as  much  as  I  can  afford." 

183 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  desert 
me  now  ? " 

"  Not  if  you  can  show  me  any  reasonable  possi- 
bility of  retrieving  the  situation." 

"  I  can't  1  Drury  Lane  is  no  go ;  Adelphi  full 
up ;  and  Boucicault  is  in  for  a  great  go  at  the 
Princess's  with  '  Arrah  na  Pogue.'  He  was  in  a 
worse  plight  at  Dublin  than  we  are  now.  '  Arrah ' 
was  a  cruel  '  frost '  there,  artistically  as  well  as 
financially.  He  kept  it  dark,  revised  and  rewrote, 
turned  it  into  a  new  piece,  and  now  it  is  going 
to  be  done  at  the  Princess's.  If  we  could  only 
hold  on,  we  might  get  a  look  in  there  by-and-by. 
Think !   is  there  no  way  out  of  this  hole  ? " 

"  Only  one — a  provincial  tour." 

"  Where  ? " 

"  In  the  big  towns :  Manchester,  Liverpool, 
Bath,  and  Bristol,  and,  above  all,  in  Birmingham, 
where  your  hell-hole  is." 

"  A  capital  idea.     Where  shall  we  begin  ?  " 

"  Depends  on  where  we  can  get  in.  For  choice 
I  prefer  Manchester." 

-  Why  ? " 

'*  Because  it  stands  next  to  London.  I'll  run 
over  to-morrow  and  see  Mr  '  Mun-be-Done.' " 

"  And  who  the  deuce  is  he  ? " 

"  The  manager,  John  Knowles." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  Mun-be-Done  ?  " 

^^  He  means  it.  There's  no  arguing  with  him. 
If  he  wants  a  thing  done,  he  says  :  '  It  mun  be  done,' 
and  done  it  is,  there  and  then." 

"  A  rough  diamond,  evidently." 

"  The  roughest  you  ever  came  across.  Anyhow, 
I'll  have  a  '  wi'ostle '  with  him  to-morrow.  You'd 
better  come  with  me." 

"  Nothing  I  should  like  better." 

"  Very  well,  then,  we'll  go  at  once,  by  to-night's 
mail.  I'll  telegraph  him  to  meet  us  at  the  theatre 
at  nine  to-morrow." 

When  we  were  on  our  way  to  Manchester  I  said  : 
"  I  fear  there'll  be  a  difficulty  with  '  Mun-be-Done.' " 

184 


MR   "  MUN-BE-DONE  " 

''  The  deuce  !     How's  that  ? " 

Then  I  explained  what  1  here  recount  briefly 
for  the  benefit  of  the  reader. 

Mr  John  Knowles  was  so  unique  and  remark- 
able a  personality  that  a  vignette  of  him  is  worth 
preserving. 

In  addition  to  being  a  manager,  he  was  a  marble 
merchant,  a  connoisseur  in  art  and  antiquities, 
a  picture-dealer,  a  speculator,  and  a  born  financier. 
In  effect,  he  was  the  only  financial  head  existent 
at  that  time  in  the  managerial  fraternity. 

Although  he  knew  less  about  the  art  of  acting 
than  he  did  about  the  sister  arts  he  knew  what 
pleased  the  public,  and  possibly  that  is  the  most 
important  thing  for  a  manager  to  know. 

In  business — i.e.  the  business  of  the  theatre,  he 
was  arrogant  and  overbearing ;  and  ruled  the  actors 
with  a  rod  of  iron.  He  was  never  seen  to  set  foot 
on  the  stage  at  a  rehearsal,  and  was  never  known 
to  exchange  the  ordinary  courtesies  of  life  with  the 
members  of  his  company — many  of  them  did  not 
know  him  by  sight — others,  who  did,  were  for  years 
in  the  company  without  presuming  to  accost  him. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  he  might  do  one  of  the  ladies  (if 
she  happened  to  be  clever,  young,  and  interesting !) 
the  honour  of  introducing  himself,  but  this  was  of 
rare  occurrence. 

The  newspaper  people  he  despised — detested — and 
was  never  known  to  offer  them  the  slightest  courtesy, 
and,  whenever  the  chance  presented  itself,  these  gentle- 
men never  omitted  the  opportunity  to  have  a  slap  at 
him ;  but  his  position  was  so  assured  that  their  praise 
or  blame  were  alike  indifferent  to  him. 

I  must  plead  guilty  to  having  been  the  author 
of  a  sobriquet,  which  clung  to  him  like  the  shirt 
of  Nessus — viz.  "The  Man  with  the  marble  Heart." 
When  I  knew  him  better,  I  could  have  wished  to 
recall  it,  for,  brusque  and  even  repellent  to  the  verge 
of  brutality  as  he  was  in  business,  he  was  genial  and 
the  soul  of  hospitality  in  his  home. 

He  certainly  found  his  system  answer,  inasmuch 

185 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

as  for  many  years  his  theatre  was  not  only  the  most 
prosperous  but  one  of  the  best  conducted  in  the 
kingdom. 

It  was  alleged  by  old  Mancastrians  that  before  he 
became  manager  of  the  Theatre  Royal  he  had  tried 
his  hand  at  many  things ;  amongst  others,  had  been 
driver  of  the  mail  coach  to  Buxton.  One  thing,  how- 
ever, was  quite  certain,  that  when  the  Roxby  Fountain 
got  into  difficulties  at  the  old  theatre  in  Beverleys 
Street,  he  came  to  the  rescue,  and  advanced  a  "  bit." 

Having  once  got  in,  he  never  got  out — but  the 
Roxbys  did ;  and  when  the  old  theatre  came  down 
and  they  retired  to  the  North,  he  succeeded  in 
getting  the  new  theatre  erected,  stuck  to  it,  and 
was  for  many  years  not  only  the  autocrat  of  Man- 
chester but  of  Ijondon  to  boot. 

He  advanced  a  "  bit "  to  "  Buckey,"  a  "  bit "  to 
E.  T.  Smith,  a  "  bit "  to  Charles  Dillon,  a  "  bit "  to 
Falconer  and  Chatterton,  a  "  bit "  to  Charles  IMathews^ 
and  had  them  all  more  or  less  under  his  thumb. 

The  "  bits "  were  never  advanced  in  coin,  the 
circulating  media  being  slips  of  blue  paper  and  bill 
stamps,  which  were  duly  discounted  by  a  "  friend  in 
the  city"  at  ten  per  cent. 

If  the  acceptor  failed  to  come  to  the  scratch, 
renewals  were  granted,  subject  to  engagements  in 
town  for  protegees,  engagements  in  the  country  of 
distinguished  actors  on  easy  terms  for  him,  but 
sometimes  rather  hard  ones  for  the  defaulter. 

At  one  of  these  periods  of  stress  Knowles  had  sent 
Mathews  to  me,  had  driven  a  very  hard  bargain,  and 
got  his  "  pound  of  flesh,  cut  from  my  very  heart." 

Shortly  afterwards  'twas  my  turn.  I  had  engaged 
Mathews  for  a  month.  My  contract  was  with 
Knowles  who  personally  guaranteed  the  fulfilment 
of  the  engagement.  One  day  I  had  been  over  to 
Preston  to  arrange  the  programme  with  Charley, 
and  had  a  delightful  time.  Returning  to  Man- 
chester after  dinner,  I  stopped  at  St  Helens  for 
an  hour  or  more  to  see  Barry  Sullivan^  who  had 
applied   to   me  for  an   engagement ;  made  one  of  a 

186 


"NAILED  "   IN   LANCASTER   CASTLE 

select  audience  of  about  a  dozen  to  witness  an  act  of 
"  The  I^ady  of  Lyons  "  ;  and  concluded  7iot  to  engage 
Barry.  On  my  arrival  in  Cottonopolis  I  found  a 
telegram  from  the  airy  Charley  awaiting  me  to  this 
effect : 

"  '  Nailed  '  half-an-hour  after  you  left.  Shall  be 
in  Lancaster  Castle  for  the  next  month.  Don't 
expect  me  in  Norwich.  See  '  Mun-be-Done '  and 
arrange  best  you  can." 

Thinking  it  possible  to  help  my  poor  friend  out  of 
this  dilemna  I  went  next  day  to  Lancaster.  Accus- 
tomed as  he  was  to  laugh  his  troubles  off,  on  this 
occasion  he  didn't  even  try.  A  heap  of  detainers  had 
come  in,  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  make  a 
clean  slate,  and  I  left  him  with  a  heart  heavy  as  his 
own. 

When  I  saw  Knowles  that  night  with  the  view  of 
arranging  matters  amicably,  he  laughed,  cheeked  me, 
and  told  me  to  go  to  law  or — a  warmer  place. 

I  "  went "  for  him,  and  he  had  to  "  shell  out," 
and  didn't  like  it. 

A  short  time  after  I  met  him  at  the  Tavistock. 

"  Luik  here,  young  shaver,"  said  he,  "  thou'rt  the 
only  play-actor  that  ever  took  a  rise  out  o'  John 
Knowles,  and  thou  shalt  never  act  in  my  theatre 
again — never,  by  gum  ! " 

When  I  had  explained  our  feud  to  Reade,  I  said : 
"You  see  my  difficulty.  He  will  object  to  my 
acting  in  the  play." 

"  Then  what  the  devil's  the  use  of  dragging  me 
to  Manchester  at  this  unearthly  hour  ? " 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  not  the  only  actor  in  the 
world." 

"  Possibly !  but  you're  the  only  Tom  Robinson  I 
see  at  present." 

"  Nonsense !  I  can  get  quite  as  good  a  man  for 
£10  a  week." 

"  When  I  see  it  I'll  believe  it.  Meanwhile,  I 
should  like  to  know  where  /  come  in." 

"  In  dividing  the  responsibility  and  the  profit." 

187 


IT   IS   NEVER   TOO   I.ATE   TO   MEND 

"  How  ? " 

"  When  he  objects  to  me,  as  he  is  sure  to  do,  I'll 
propose  to  hire  the  theatre  for  a  certainty,  and  you 
must  be  prepared  to  plank  down  the  rent.  Per 
contra,  I'll  provide  as  much  and  more  than  you, 
including  new  scenery,  etc.,  and  I'll  organise  an 
entirely  new  company." 

"I'd  rather  have  the  old  one.     I'm  sure  of  them." 

"  Impossible  I " 

"Why?" 

"  AVhy  ?  Can't  you  see  I've  half-a-dozen  theatres, 
and  cannot  possibly  dispense  with  my  own  company 
out  of  my  own  theatres." 

"  But  we  shall  have  to  begin  dc  novo.  Rehearsals, 
music,  scenery,  and  God  knows  what  all ! " 

"  Don't  you  trouble  about  that  —  leave  that 
to   me ! " 

"  You  are  the  most  cocksure  young  gentleman 
I  ever  met  with." 

"All  right.  Now  excuse  me  if  I  take  forty 
whiks  till  we  get  to  Manchester." 

On  the  morning  of  our  interview  Knowles  turned 
up  in  his  usual  summer  costume — a  morning  jacket 
or  coatee,  a  loose  necktie  and  collar,  and  a  pair  of  grey 
unmentionables. 

At  this  time  he  was  about  fifty,  but  as  wiry  and 
elastic  as  if  he  had  been  live-and-twenty.  His  hair 
and  whiskers  were  grey  and  curling,  his  eyes  like 
steel,  bulldog  jaws,  and  a  mouth  fixed  like  a  vice. 

"  Well,  young  shaver,"  he  began,  "  what's  in  t' 
wind  ? " 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  my  friend,  Mr  Charles 
Reade." 

"  Ay,  ay,  — '  Never-too-Late '  chap.  How  are 
ye,  sir,  how  are  ye  ?  And  now  cum  to  cues, 
John.  Time's  brass,  and  I'm  doo  at  marble  works 
at  ten.     What's  up,  and  what  dost  want  ? " 

When  I  explained  my  business,  he  replied : 

"  Didn't  I  tell  'ee  a  year  ago  thou  shouldst 
never  act  in  my  theatre  again  ? " 

188 


"BRASS    DOWN!" 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  act  in  your  blessed 
theatre  ? " 

"  But  you  acted  t'  convict  chap  i'  your  own  shop." 

"  True.     But  I'm  not  going  to  do  it  in  yours." 

"  Then  why  the  blazes  dost  come  wasten'  my 
time  ? " 

'*  Because  I'm  going  to  send  a  new  company 
here." 

"Like  thy  d d  cheek!      No!      If  the  thing 

is  done  here — moind,  I  say,  if  it  is  done — it  mun 
be  done  with  the  whole  bag  o'  tricks,  and  thou 
mun  play  Tom — what's  t'  beggar's  name — Robin- 
son thysen ! " 

"  I  can't ! " 

"  Can't  be  hanged  !     Tell  'ee  it  '  Mun  be  done  ' ! " 

"  But  the  piece  doesn't  depend  on  me.  I'll 
mount  it  splendidly — bring  a  rattling  company." 

"  Na,  na  !     Thou  must  cum  thysen  or  I'm  off!  " 

"  That's  the  last  word  then  ?  " 

"  T'last." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  shall  go  to  the  Queen's  ! " 

"  Thou  canst  go  to if  thou  lik'st ! " 

Here  Reade  took  up  his  cue. 

"  Don't  lose  your  temper,  INIr  Knowles,"  said  he. 

"  I'm  not  losin'  my  temper ;  but  if  this  young 
viper  thinks  to  ride  rough  -  shod  o^'er  me  —  me, 
John  Knowles — he's  mista'en.     I'll  see  him " 

"  Will  you  take  a  rent  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  a  certainty  ?  " 

"A  certainty." 

"  And  brass  down  ? " 

*'  Brass  down." 

"  Now  you  talk  business,  Misther  '  Never- too- 
Late.'  Never  too  late — a  good  idea  that !  Never 
too  late  ?  By  gum !  but  it  is  though  —  too  late 
for  marble  works !  I  mun  be  off.  Cum  and  dine 
wi'  me  at  Stafford  Park.  Five  o'clock  sharp,  and 
— stop  a  bit !  Cum  hafe-an-hour  earlier,  and  I'se 
show  thee  picturs.  Know  ovA  about  pictures  ?  I 
can   show    thee    one    or    two    worth    a    Jew's   eye. 

189 


^ 


IT   IS   NEVER   TOO   LATE   TO    INIEND 

Moind,  then,  hate  past  tower,  and  we'll  fettle  it 
oop  after  dinner." 

At  half  past  four  we  were  at  Stafford  Park,  and 
Reade,  who  was  also  a  connoisseiu'  and  a  good  judge 
too,  was  delighted  with  the  pictures. 

After  dinner  (a  very  good  one),  we  "fettled  it  up," 
but  as  usual  "  Mun-be-Done "  got  the  best  of  it. 

In  addition  to  paying  a  handsome  rental  he 
bound  me  not  to  act  at  the  Queen's  during  the 
next  tweh  e  months,  and  then  he  made  me  take  half- 
a-dozen  members  of  his  company  whom  I  didn't 
want,  including,  fortunately,  two  or  three  whom  I 
did,  and  so  we  signed  and  sealed  for  a  month,  com- 
mencing 6th  April  1865. 

The  same  night  we  ran  over  to  Liverpool  and 
arranged  with  my  friend  Copeland  for  the  Amphi- 
theatre for  six  weeks  to  follow,  wired  Chute  and 
arranged  for  Bristol.  Next  morning  went  to  Birm- 
ingham and  arranged  ^vith  W.  H.  Swanboro  for  a 
month,  and  so  our  first  provnicial  tour  was  hot  only 
settled  in  twenty-four  hours,  but  carpenters  and 
painters  were  actually  set  to  work  on  the  scenery. 

These  matters  settled,  Reade  returned  to  London, 
elate  and  confident  of  success. 

I  remained  for  a  few  days  to  superintend  matters 
of  detail  and  to  arrange  for  pictorial  posters,  which 
were  designed  by  Benjamin  Fountain,  a  man  of 
genius  whom  I  had  discovered  in  Leeds — a  man 
who  devoted  to  this  sectarian  town  talents  which 
ought  to  have  been  given  to  the  world. 

Amongst  other  innovations  of  which  I  am  by 
no  means  proud,  I  am  the  culprit  who  first  intro- 
duced pictorials  in  connection  with  the  drama. 

The  fii'st  poster  of  this  kind  ever  devised  for 
the  English  stage  was  designed  by  Fountain,  for 
me,  to  illustrate  the  supreme  moment  in  Schiller's 
tragedy,  "  The  Robbers "  —  made  memorable  by 
Coleridge's   high-falutin'   sonnet : 

"  Schiller,  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die, 
When  through  the  woods  a  famished  father's  cry,"  etc. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Fountain's  pictorials 

190 


ARRAH   NA   POGUE 

which  I  designed  contributed  gi'eatly  to  the  success 
which  ultimately  attended  "It  is  Never  too  Late  to 
Mend  "  in  town  and  country. 

When  I  had  completed  my  preparations  for  the 
Manchester  production  I  started  on  my  annual  holiday. 

Passing  through  London  with  my  wife  en  route  for 
Paris  the  following  Saturday,  to  our  astonishment  and 
delight  we  found  Reade  awaiting  us  at  King's  Cross. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  Paris  to-night,"  he  said ; 
*'  you're  coming  to  Albert  Gate.  Dinner  and  your 
room  will  be  ready  by  the  time  we  get  there.  After 
dinner  you're  going  with  us  to  the  Princess's  to  see 
one  of  the  most  delightful  plays  in  existence." 

He  was  right.  "  Arrah  na  Pogue  "  is  one  of  the 
most  dehghtful  and  certainly  was  one  of  the  most 
admirably-acted  plays  the  stage  has  ever  seen. 

What  a  cast — what  exquisite  scenery — what  de- 
lightful music — and,  I  repeat,  what  a  delightful  play  ! 

There  was  Arrah  of  the  kiss,  with  "  eyes  of 
Irish  grey"  and  the  voice  of  gold;  there  was 
charming  bright  -  eyed  Patty  QUver  as  Fanny 
Power ;  there  was  John  Brougham,  the  most  genial 
of  O 'Grady's,  the  noblest  type  of  the  Irish  gentleman 
in  the  world ;  there  was  Harry  ^^andenhoff,  then  in 
the  flower  of  manly  beautyT  as  the  INIcCoul ;  there 
was  Dominic  JNIurray  in  Feeny  (an  inimitable  per- 
formance) ;  there  were  half-a-dozen  raal  Kerry  boys 
imported  from  the  Theatre  Royal,  Dublin,  for  the 
minor  characters ;  and  there  was  Dion  himself — 
comedian,  tragedian,  poet,  author,  manager,  stage- 
manager  ;  and  there  was  I,  laughing  like  a  boy, 
crying  like  a  girl,  amused,  enthralled,  enchanted 
at  one  and  the  same  moment. 

It  saddens  me  to  think  that  all  these  admirable 
artists  (except  sweet  Arrah  herself,  whom  I  saw  the 
other  day,  gracious  and  charming  as  ever)  and  the 
three  dear  friends  who  shared  my  pleasure  on  that 
auspicious  night  have  "  slipped  like  shadows  into 
shade,"  and  I  alone  remain  to  recount  that  delightful 
experience ! 

191 


..<*'*.,«« 


y 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

Next  night  found  nie  at  the  old  Opera  House 
in  the  Rue  Le  Pelletier  "  assisting  "  at  the  premiere 
of  Ambroise  Thomas'  opera  of  "  Hamlet,"  with 
Faure,  admirable  actor  as  well  as  gi'eat  singer,  as 
■""HFI^mlet,  and  Christine  NiU^on  as  Ophelia.  The 
opera  is — but  "  that  is  another  story  !  " 

My  brief  holiday  over,  I  returned  to  work, 
and  commenced  rehearsals  at  once. 

My  new  recruits  consisted  of  Miss  Caroline 
Carson  from  Drury  Lane  and  the  Princess's — one 
of  three  sisters  renowned  for  their  beauty.  This 
lady,  who  had  already  distinguished  herself  highly 
in  one  of  my  companies  as  the  heroines  of 
*'  Katharine  Howard  "  and  "  Black-ey'd  Susan,"  and 
as  Margery  in  "  The  Rough  Diamond,"  etc.,  was 
the  Susan  Merton,  for  which  a  certain  pathetic 
sincerity,  combined  with  her  remarkable  beauty, 
especially  adapted  her ;  while  Mr  Henry  Loraine^ 
(then  an  admu*able  and  accomplished  actor),  stepped 
into  my  shoes  as  Tom  Robinson ;  Mr  Henry 
Sinclair,  a  good  rough  actor,  for  many  years  at 
Drury  Lane,  took  my  brother's  place  as  George 
Fielding,  while  he  slipped  into  Eden ;  Mr  John 
Pritchard,  formerly  manager  of  the  York  Circuit, 
made  a  powerful  and  portentous  Isaac  Levi ;  Mr 
Fred  Everill  (afterwards  one  of  the  principal 
members  of  the  Haymarket  company)  was  an 
excellent  Meadows ;  and  the  local  comedian,  one 
Thompson,  "  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,"  was  the 
Crawley,  while  the  minor  characters  were  all  acted 
by  men  who  had  been  or  were  tragedians. 

Still  more  remarkable  to  relate,  among  the 
supernumeraries  were  two  gentlemen  who  ulti- 
mately became,  and  are  still,  principal  tragedians, 
and  who  have  since  played  the  principal  parts  in 
this  very  play ;  another,  who  became  stage-manager 
of  a  London  theatre,  and  who  is  now,  alas !  in  a 
poorhouse ;  and  another,  who  for  years  was  manager 
of  one  of  the  principal  INIanchester  theatres. 

With  the  exception  of  Calhaem,  Crawley,  and 
Eden,  all   these  good   people   were   six-footers,  and 

192 


I'hoto  hy  Cupcliu  (L  Son,  Cliimgo 


EDWARD  COI-EMAN 

THE   ORIGINAL  GEORGE  FIELDING 


TRIUMPHANT   IN   COTTONOPOLIS 

were    not    inaptly    styled    "  Coleman's    Patagonian 
Company." 

By  this  time  Reade  had  ceased  to  interfere  with 
our  rehearsals ;  and  the  music  being  arranged  and 
dramatic  action  ah'eady  invented,  the  actors,  know- 
ing they  had  only  one  stage-manager  to  deal  with, 
were  perfect  in  the  text  at  the  very  first  rehearsal, 
docile,  attentive,  and  obliging. 

The  mise  cji  scene  was  perfect.  No  more 
beautiful  scenes  have  ever  been  presented  than 
George  Fielding's  farm,  and  the  waterfall  at  the 
Golden  Horseshoe  in  Australia. 

The    production     took    place     on    Monday,    6th 
August  1865. 

Strangely  enough,  two  old  friends  of  mine,  Miss 
Amy  Sedgwick  and  Miss  Beatrix  Shirley,  who  had 
formerly  been  my  leading  ladies,  happened  to  be 
in  Manchester,  and  I  invited  them  to  our  premiere^ 
Both  were  beauties,  in  the  rich,  ripe  bloom  of  woman 
hood,  and  finely  contrasted  with  each  other,  the 
one  being  fair  as  morning,  while  the  other  was 
dark  as  night. 

If  there  was  a  fine  woman  anyi\4iere  about, 
Reade  was  attracted  as  irresistibly  as  a  fly  is  drawn 
to  a  honey-pot,  so,  of  course,  he  came  to  my  box 
for  an  introduction. 

After  the  usual  civilities  we  settled  down  for  the 
play. 

When  the  gorgeous  Susan  Merton  sailed  down 
the  stage  the  two  ladies  craned  up  their  necks  and 
took  stock  of  their  rival.  Then  Reade  took  stock 
of  them. 

"  By  the  living  jingo  !  "  he  whispered,  "  a  perfect 
constellation !  Here,  Pallas  Athene  and  Idalian 
Aphrodite !  Were  I  Paris,  hang  me  if  I  should 
know  to  which  of  'em  to  award  the  apple ! " 

The  play  and  the  players  were  received 
with  the  utmost  enthusiasm,  and  the  audience 
divided  honours  equally  with  the  author  and  the 
manager. 

N  193 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

As  we  came  out  we  met  "  Mun-be-Done "  in 
the  vestibule. 

*'Got  'em,  lad,  got  'em!"  he  said.  "Cry  ofF 
th'  rent,  come  in  on  shares,  and  I'll  gi'e  thee  a 
hundred  pound  for  thy  bargain ! " 

"  No,  thanks  ! "  I  replied.  "  It's  good  enough  as 
it  is." 

The  Manchester  Press,  usually  disposed  to  be 
hypercritical  and  exacerbating,  were  unanimous  in 
their  eulogies,  but — an  insect  can  sting  an  elephant 
if  it  gets  in  his  eye—an  insect  got  into  Reade's  eye, 
and  he  was  furious. 

The  local  correspondent  of  the  great  channel  of 
communication  with  the  managers  —  the  Era — 
merely  mentioned  the  fact  of  our  production,  and 
then  proceeded  to  state  in  terms  of  condescending 
commendation  that  a  former  version  of  the  story 
(by  one  of  the  thieves !)  had  been  acted  at  the 
Queen's  Theatre  for  eighty-nine  consecutive  nights, 
and  was  only  withdrawn  then  in  consequence  of 
the  imminent  production  of  the  pantomime. 

Although  he  inserted  this  insolent  avowal  of 
piracy  and  petty  larceny,  the  editor  took  the 
opportunity  of  reminding  his  readers  that  the 
Era  had  already  inserted  a  special  notice  on  the 
original  production  of  the  play  at  Leeds,  and  that 
his  correspondent,  having  an  entire  week  for  the 
purpose,  ought  to  have  sent  a  proper  notice  of  the 
Manchester  production. 

The  weather  was  abnormally  hot,  but  the  theatre 
was  crowded   to   overflowing  till   we   moved   on   to 
Liverpool,  where  we  had  to  fight  with  Fechter,  Katg. 
Bateman,    and    Mapleson's     Italian    Opera    at    the 
Theatre  Royal. 

Fechtgjr,  who  arrived  a  week  before  his  engage- 
ment, came  night  after  night,  and  paid  us  the  great 
compliment  to  pronounce  our  play  the  best  acted, 
the  best  mounted,  and  the  best  stage-managed  play 
he  had  seen  in  this  country  1 

Referring  to  the  stage  management  he  was  kind 
enough  to  say :  "  If  the  team  is  like  this,  what  must 

194 


LEAH,  FECHTER,  TIETJENS,  MAPLESON 

the  teamster  be  ?  I  speak  of  what  I  know,  because 
I  flatter  myself  I  am  a  stage-manager.  Come  to 
the  I^yceum,  my  boy ;  come  and  act  ^\ith  me.  I 
can  show  you  a  thing  or  two,  and  you  can  show 
me  something,  and  I'm  glad  to  hve  and  learn." 

Poor  Fechter !  had  he  only  learnt  to  know  him- 
himself  I  His  genius  was  of  the  highest  order :  had 
he  only  known  how  to  control  it  I 

My  sweet  friend  Kate  Bateman  was  then  at  her 
zenith,  and  was  an  enormous  favourite  in  Liverpool, 
where  she  attracted  overflowing  houses. 

By-the-by,  at  this  period,  it  was  essential  for 
young  actors  to  learn  their  rudiments,  and  my  friends 
were  wont  to  send  their  girls  and  boys  to  acquire 
a  knowledge  of  their  business  in  the  "  School,"  as  the 
York  Circuit  was  then  called.  They  didn't  pay  for 
being  taught ;  au  vontrairc,  I  paid  them  for  the 
privilege  of  teaching  them.  Every  girl  or  boy 
received  her  or  his  rural  guinea  a  week,  and  learnt 
to  hve  on  it  too ! 

At  or  about  this  very  time,  the  two  Addison  girls, 
and  Clara  Dillon,  Augustus  Harris,  Fred  Buckstone, 
Sidney  Lacy,  Charles  Pitt,  and  Richmond  Bateman 
(the  poor  boy  who  was  soon  afterwards  drowned  on 
his  way  out  to  join  the  American  Legation  in  Japan), 
were  members  of  my  company. 

At  the  "  Colonel's  "  request  I  brought  Richmond 
to  Liverpool,  where  he  played  William  Fielding,  and 
played  it  admirably. 

Besides   the  fair  "  Leah "  and  her  company,  we 
had  not  only  to  encounter  Fechter  and  the  Lyceum 
troupe,  but  JNIapleson  with  Tietjens,  Wachtel,  Santley,  /U  h^erc^ 
and  a  numerous  and  efficient  Italian  opera  company.       ,  -'-^ 

The  attraction,  however,  of  "  Never  too  Late  "  con- 
tinued without  abatement  for  six  consecutive  weeks,  *=-^ 
when  we  migi-ated  to  Bristol,  Bath,  and  Birmingham,            €^,m^ 
where  the  Inferno  of  the  Model  prison  existed. 

The  officer  who  had  charge  of  the  gallery  of 
our  theatre  there  assured  me  that  half  the  gallery 
audience  of  the  opening  night  had,  at  one  period  or 
other,  been  under  the  iron  hand  of  Hawes  and  Co. 

195 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

Anyhow,  our  gods  were  most  sympathetic 
deities ! 

Mr  Loraine  had  been  a  great  local  favourite  of 
former  years,  and  his  popularity  added  point  to  every 
utterance.  He  and  my  brother  (Eden)  were  the 
heroes  of  the  hour — every  line  they  uttered  evoked 
plaudits  loud  and  long  -  continued,  while  Hawes 
and  his  myrmidons  were  assailed  with  howls  of 
execration. 

Could  the  angry  gods  have  got  at  them  they 
would  scarcely  have  escaped  condign  punishment 
there  and  then. 

Referring  to  this  remarkable  demonstration  on  the 
part  of  the  audience  a  Birmingham  publicist  stated 
at  the  time : 

"  If  anyone  should  doubt  the  abhorrence  of 
Birmingham  to  such  horrible  inhumanities,  let  him 
witness  the  performance  of  the  drama.  He  will 
then  know,  by  the  uncontrollable  sobs  of  the 
audience  at  the  simulated  sufferings  of  the  victims, 
and  by  the  murmurs  of  execration  with  which  the 
representative  of  the  diabolical  governor  is  greeted, 
how  utterly  Birmingham  despises  wrong-doing  and 
tyranny,  and  how  entirely  its  people  compassionate 
the  victims  of  cruelty  and  oppression." 

Much  was  written  in  Manchester,  Liverpool, 
Bristol,  and  Birmingham  on  the  production.  Out 
of  all  the  reams  of  criticism  I  only  inflict  this 
one,  from  the  Daily  Post,  upon  the  reader : 

"  Painful  as  the  incidents  delineated  with  so  much 
force,  skill,  pathos,  and  dramatic  power  are,  they  are 
by  no  means  equal  to  the  stern  facts  upon  which  the 
dramatist  has  based  his  tragic  scenes.  The  dismal 
history  was  inscribed  in  our  local  record,  and  is  pro- 
bably well-nigh  forgotten  by  those  who  were  living 
at  that  time.  .  .  . 

"  On  the  29th  October  1849  the  gaol  (of  Birming- 
ham) was  opened.  Captain  Mackonochie  being  ap- 
pointed governor.  He  had  been  superintendent  at 
Norfolk  Island,  and  introduced  the  'mark  system,' 

196 


THE   MODEL   INFERNO 

under  which  a  prisoner  was  not  entitled  to  any  other 
food  than  bread  and  water,  but  might  earn,  an  im- 
proved dietary,  together  with  other  indulgences  and 
rewards,  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  marks  he 
should  obtain.  This  system  the  captain  desired  to 
introduce  into  Birmingham  gaol. 

"  This  beneficial  system  was  not  allowed  to  con- 
tinue in  operation  for  any  length  of  time.  In  March 
1850  the  office  of  principal  warder  became  vacant, 
and  Lieutenant  Austin  was  appointed.  From  the 
day  he  entered  he  seems  to  have  aimed  at  under- 
mining the  authority  of  the  governor.  Quarrels 
arose,  and  Austin  jesuitically  sent  in  his  resignation, 
but  it  was  not  accepted.  Shortly  after.  Captain 
Mackonochie  was  deprived  of  his  appointment ;  and 
on  21st  October  1851  Austin  was  appointed  governor. 
The  humane  system  and  the  generally  mild  treat- 
ment to  which  prisoners  had  been  subjected  were 
immediately  superseded  by  others  of  brutality  and 
cruelty.  BetAveen  November  1851  and  April  1853 
there  were  no  less  than  twelve  attempts  at  suicide, 
and  three  in  which  the  unfortunate  prisoners  actually 
succeeded  in  destroying  their  lives.  The  Blue-book 
is  full  of  harrowing  details  such  as  make  one  shudder. 
Many  cases  might  be  cited,  but  I  shall  be  able  only 
to  find  room  for  one.  This  is  that  of  the  boy  Andrews, 
who  serves  as  the  model  of  'Josephs,'  the  main 
difference  being  that  Andrews  was  driven  to  suicide, 
while  in  the  drama  the  boy  Josephs  dies  in  the  arms 
of  the  chaplain.  For  stealing  four  pounds  of  beef 
Edward  Andrews  (a  boy  of  fifteen  years  of  age)  was 
committed,  28th  March  1853,  for  three  months. 
The  chaplain  described  him  as  '  quiet,  mild,  docile ' ; 
but  the  governor  said  he  was  of  a  '  sullen  and  dogged 
disposition.'  On  30th  March  he  was  put  to  work 
at  the  crank.  One  of  the  witnesses  deposed  that  '  to 
accomplish  the  10,000  revolutions  necessary  for  a 
day's  work  a  boy  would  exert  force  equal  to  one- 
fourth  of  an  ordinary  draught-horse.'  He  failed  to 
perform  his  task  on  the  30th  and  31st.  On  both 
these  days  he  was  Jed  on  bread  and  water  only,  not 

197 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

receiving  any  food  vohatever  until  flight  I  On  17th 
April  he  was  put  into  the  punishment  jacket,  where 
the  arms  were  crossed  on  the  breast  and  tied 
together,  motion  being  impossible.  In  addition  to 
the  jacket  a  stiff  leather  stock  was  fastened  tightly 
round  his  neck,  and  he  was  strapped  in  a  standing 
position  to  the  walls  of  his  cell.  On  the  19th  he 
was  again  strapped  for  four  hours.  On  that  occasion, 
the  chaplain  was  attracted  to  his  cell  by  shrieks  of 
*  murder.'  On  going  there,  he  found  the  wretched 
lad  suffering  great  bodily  pain  in  his  arms,  chest, 
and  neck,  crying  and  wailing  most  piteously.  The 
chaplain  found  that  the  stock  was  fastened  so  tightly 
that  he  could  not  insert  his  finger  between  it  and 
the  poor  boy's  neck.  On  the  22nd  and  24th  he  was 
again  strapped.  On  this  occasion  a  bucket  of  water 
was  thrown  over  him,  and  he  was  seen  standing  with 
one  sock  and  one  bare  foot  on  the  wet  stone  floor 
of  his  cell.  On  26th  and  27th  April  he  was  de- 
prived of  his  bed  from  5.30  a.m.  to  10  p.m.  On  the 
evening  of  the  latter  day,  as  the  watch  was  taking 
the  bed  to  the  cell,  he  found  the  hapless  lad  hanging 
dead." 

The  murderous  ruffian,  who  had  driven  the  poor 
lad  to  this  extremity,  was  tried  at  Warwick,  in- 
dicted, convicted,  and — horrible  travesty  of  justice  ! 
— sentenced  to  three  months'  imprisonment  1 

Things  are  bad  enough  now,  when  a  gentle- 
man of  the  Hooligan  fraternity  murders  a  poor 
wounded  soldier,  a  total  stranger,  in  the  open  street, 
murders  him  in  sheer  wantonness,  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  assassination,  and  escapes  with  seven 
years'  penal  servitude,  but  not  quite  so  bad  as  they 
were  at  Warwick  Assizes  in  the  year  of  grace  1851. 

Our  tour,  which  terminated  at  Birmingham,  was 
marked  by  a  mishap  which  made  me  the  victim  of 
misplaced  confidence. 

Immediately  preceding  our  engagement,  was  that 
of  Sothern,  who  was  opposed  at  the  Theatre  Royal 

198 


?5 
< 

P3 


DUNDREARY  AND  THE  BATEMAN  FEVER 

by  Miss  Kate  Bateman.  Birmingham  was  a  strong- 
hold of  the  fair  Katie.  The  Warwickshire  lads  had 
the  '"  Leah "  fever !  So  strong,  indeed,  was  the 
vogue  that  the  gallery  was  closed  and  the  overflow 
of  the  pit  was  flooded  up  into  the  gallery  at  pit  prices. 

Sothern  opened  to  a  very  bad  house  at  the 
Prince  of  A  Vales.  The  piece  (a  new  one)  went 
wretchedly  to  the  scanty  audience  and  INIaster  Ned 
resolved,  at  whatever  cost,  to  get  out  of  it. 

The  convenient  excuse  of  Influenza  was  found, 
and  the  theatre  had  to  be  closed.  The  position  was  a 
serious  one  for  the  manager,  who  had  gone  to  con- 
siderable expense  in  the  preparation  of  scenery,  etc. 

The  Birmingham  public  were  very  exacting,  and 
the  closure,  being  in  every  one's  mouth,  threatened  to 
ruin  the  theatre. 

The  hapless  manager  made  his  way  to  the  Hen  and 
Chickens,  where  Sothern  was  staying,  penetrated  to 
my  Lord  Dundreary's  room,  and  found  his  lordship 
the  life  and  soul  of  a  jovial  party  of  friends  to  whom 
he  was  explaining  the  mystery  of  the  Davenport 
brothers'  Tom  Fool  knot. 

Swanboro  begged  Sothern  to  fulfil  his  engagement, 
but  he  remained  obdurate,  and  left  Birmingham  next 
morning. 

This  contretemps  would  have  been  absolutely  fatal 
to  Swanboro  had  not  the  success  of  "  Never  too  Late 
to  Mend  "  partially  retrieved  it.  It  was  anticipated, 
however,  that  the  Pantomime  would  retrieve  every- 
thing. 

This  sort  of  rubbish  cannot  be  produced  without 
money.  It  was  now  November,  and  Swanboro  ap- 
pealed to  me  to  help  him  over  the  stile.  "  A  fellow 
feehng  makes  us  wondrous  kind."  Being  a  manager 
myself  I  advanced  him  £500  out  of  my  receipts 
on  the  security  of  his  acceptance  due  the  first 
month  of  the  Pantomime. 

L^p  to  this  time  the  Birmingham  Christmas  piece 
had  been  highly  successful.  Pantomime  is  All  Fools' 
holiday,  and  all  fools  rush  to  do  honour  to  their 
patron  saint. 

199 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

On  this  occasion  there  was  a  terrible  snowstorm, 
which  lasted  for  a  considerable  period.  The  streets 
were  impassable,  and  even  the  fools  were  not  alto- 
gether lunatics,  and  they  stayed  at  home  I 

The  Pantomime  was  a  dismal  failure,  and  the 
bill  came  back. 

Swanboro,  however,  had  commenced  proceedings, 
against  Sothern,  and  had  good  grounds  for  action, 
inasmuch  as  my  facetious  friend,  who  was  engaged  to 
him  for  a  fortnight,  and  who  had  alleged  indisposi- 
tion for  inability  to  act,  had  actually  acted  in  Dublin 
during  what  ought  to  have  been  his  second  week  in 
Birmingham ! 

The  action  came  on.  'Tis  an  awkward  subject 
even  to  hint  at,  but  the  fact  remains  (let  it  be  said 
to  the  honour  of  the  English  bar  that  it  is  one 
of  unusual  occurrence !)  Swanboro  was  sold  by  his 
counsel,  lost  his  case,  and  I  lost  my  money,  and  on 
g^  "  \  this  calamity  our  first  provincial  tour  ended,  while 
London  still  remained  obstinately  closed  to  us. 


200 


03 

H 
> 

CO 

CD 
O 

W 


b 


CHAPTER  III 

TRANSFERRED  TO  TOWN 

George  Vining.  Manager  of  the  Princess's,  conies  down  to  York  to 
see  "  Never  too  Late  " — Is  strongly  impressed,  and  resolves  to 
transfer  it  to  Town — Over  the  Walnuts  and  the  Wine — A 
Romance  in  a  Nutshell  —  Production  of  the  Play  at  the 
Princess's — A  Row  and  a  Riot — Tomlins  and  Co.  on  the  Ram- 
page— The  "Tune  the  old  Cow  died  from" — The  Era  Version 
of  the  Row — Arthur  Reade  loquitur — Author's  Letter  re  Tomlins 
to  Editor  of  the  Reader — Posthumous  Paper,  "Reade's  Luck," 
written  eighteen  years  later — Despite  the  Cabal  "  Never  too 
Late"   acted   140  nights — £8000  cleared  by   the   Production 

George  Vining,  then  manager  of  the  Princess's,  had 
been  approached  by  Mrs  Seymour  on  the  subject  of 
"Never  too  Late."  He  read  it,  but  was  not  im- 
pressed with  it. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  "  it  may  act  better  than  it  reads. 
Could  I  have  only  seen  it,  I  daresay  I  might  be 
better  qualified  to  form  an  opinion." 

Thereupon  Reade  immediately  wi'ote  me  to  York 
(where  I  was  located),  begging  me  to  put  up  the 
play  for  a  week,  so  that  Vining  might  run  down  and 
see  it. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  pointed  out  the  difficulties 
— i.e.  the  absence  of  appropriate  scenery,  the  labour 
of  rehearsals  for  so  short  a  run,  the  certainty  of  loss 
('twas  m  the  dog  days  ! ) ;  he  was  as  importunate  and 
as  unreasonable  as  a  woman — would  take  no  denial, 
and  wrote  me : 

"  D — n  the  sceneiy !  You  only  need  the  prison 
set ;  you  can  do  that  in  a  week  and  vamp  the  rest. 
You  have  all  the  old  cast,  and  if  you'll  only  give 
Hamlet   and    Othello   and   Charles   Surface    a    rest, 

201 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

and  deign  to  do  your  original  part,  as  you  can  do  it 
if  you  like,  they'll  never  miss  the  scenery.  Think 
how  often  I've  been  disappointed,  and  don't  wreck 
me  now  that  I  am  in  sight  of  port ! " 

Thus  adjured  I  yielded  a  reluctant  consent,  stipu- 
lating, however,  that  Vining  must  not  be  present 
until  the  third  or  fourth  performance. 

To  my  surprise  and  annoyance  Master  George 
turned  up  the  very  first  night,  just  as  the  curtain 
was  about  to  rise.  The  house,  though  not  crowded, 
was  comfortably  full. 

We  commenced  to  the  moment,  and  there  were  no 
delays  between  the  acts.  Terribly  in  earnest,  and 
thoroughly  familiar  with  the  piece,  we  took  it  at  a 
gallop,  and  it  went  like  wildfire,  ^^ining  said  we 
hypnotised  him.  However  that  might  be,  he  resolved, 
there  and  then,  to  produce  the  play  at  the  end  of 
the  run  of  "  Arrah  na  Pogue,"  and  I  wired  Reade  to 
that  effect  that  very  night. 

Vining  was  kind  enough  to  offer  me  my  original 
part,  but  I  replied :  "No,  dear  boy,  after  waiting 
all  these  years,  I  am  not  going  to  dcbuter  in  town 
in  a  convict's  dress  and  a  scratch  wig.  Do  it  your- 
self!" 

He  rejoined  he  had  no  more  desire  than  I  had  to 
figure  in  the  livery  of  the  broad  arrow.  "  Besides," 
he  continued,  "there  is  that  blessed  'cuss'  at  the 
end  of  the  second  act,  which  requires  more  guns 
than  I  can  cany." 

"  Cut  it  out !  "  said  I. 

"  I  will !     If  I  do  the  part ! "  he  rejoined. 

(He  did  do  it.  and  he  did  cut  out  the  "cuss," 
which  was  always  my  great  effect. 

"  But  you'll  let  me  have  Jacky — I  can't  do 
without  him." 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  Josephs  ?  " 

"  Impossible." 

"  Anyhow,  you'll  lend  me  Hawes  ? " 

"  Not  the  slightest  objection  if  he  hasn't ;  but 
nothing  less  than  Peter  Teazle  or  Polonius  will  suit 

202 


FAILURE   OF   -  NOS    INTIMES  " 

him    in    town !       But    supper's    waiting,    and     I'm 
hungry  as  a  hunter,  so  come  along." 

We  had  not  met  since  George  had  plunged  into 
management,  and  he  was  now  bursting  to  record 
his  remarkable  experiences. 

Since  Shakespeare  held  horses  at  the  door  of  the 
Globe,  and  Alleyne  left  "  God's  Gift "  to  the  actors 
(which,  by  the  way,  the  actors  haven't  got !)  all 
London  managements  have  had  their  elements  of 
romance — but  none  more  romantic  than  Vining's. 

At  the  end  of  Alfred  Wigan's  tenure  of  the 
Olympic,  he  (^^ining)  had  migi-ated  first  to  Fechter 
at  the  Lyceum,  next  to  the  St  James's,  where  he 
became  leading  man  and  stage-manager  for  Miss 
Herbert,  that  superb  creature,  whose  name  conjures 
up  old  memories  of  the  Strand  and  Olympic,  and 
two  never-to-be-forgotten  images,  the  wicked  Lady 
Audley  of  my  friend  Miss  Braddon's  famous  story, 
and  chaste  Dian's  descent  upon  the  crescent  of 
the  moon  to  her  beloved  Endymion,  in  William 
Brough's  charming  burlesque. 

Vining's  tenure  of  office  at  the  St  James's  was 
shortened  by  an  untoward  incident. 

Horace  Wigan  had  adapted  Sardou's  "Nos 
Intimes "  under  the  title  of  "  Friends  or  Foes." 
The  work  was  somewhat  crudely  done,  and  during 
the  rehearsals  the  blue  pencil  had  been  applied  so 
ruthlessly  that  a  row  ensued,  during  which  Wigan 
was  ignominiously  ejected  and  forbidden  the  theatre. 

Direful  vows  of  vengeance  were  emitted  on  both 
sides.  Wigan  vowed  to  have  Vining's  gore,  whilst 
Vining  retorted  by  avowing  his  intent  to  wipe  his 
boots  on  Wigan's  corpse. 

Both  confided  their  wrongs  to  Boucicault,  who 
confided  them  to  me. 

"  Dion,"  quoth  Horace,  "  I'm  going  to-night  to 
see  the  play  again.  If  the  bald-headed  brute  dares 
take  out  another  line  I'll  thrash  him  within  an  inch 
of  his  life  1  I'm  a  pupil  of  Tom  Sayers,  and  if  I  let 
the  sweep  have  a  smell— just  one  smell — of  'the 
auctioneer '  he's  dead  as  a  red  herring ! " 

203 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

Bent  on  mischief,  Boucy  went  round  to  warn 
Vining. 

"  Bosh  I "  retorted  George.  "  Everybody  knows 
I'm  an  athlete.  I  don't  want  to  take  advantage  of 
the  little  beast,  but  if  he  lays  a  finger  on  me  I'll 
strangle  him  like  the  Python  I " 

Ensconced  in  the  gallery  with  a  friend,  Wigan 
found  his  poor  play  blue-pencilled  worse  than  ever. 
Furious  with  rage,  he  leaped  downstairs,  rushed  to 
the  top  of  the  passage  which  leads  to  the  stage- 
door  of  the  St  James's  and  mounted  guard,  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  his  enemy.  When  at  length  he 
emerged,  accompanied  by  Boucicault  who  had 
stayed  to  see  the  fun,  both  belligerents  let  out  a 
howl  of  rage,  exclaiming  simultaneously  :  "  Hold  me 
tight ! — hold  me  tight ! — or  murder  will  be  done  !  " 

"  In  fact,"  said  Boucy,  "  they  reminded  me  of 
the  disputants  over  the  Walcheren  Expedition, 
when 


while 


*  The  Earl  of  Chatham  with  his  sword  drawn, 
Stood  waiting  for  Sir  Richard  Straughan  ; ' 


'  Sir  Richard,  longing  to  be  at  him, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  Earl  of  Chatham  ! 


In  mutual  peril  of  their  lives  the  opponents 
summoned  and  cross-summoned  each  other  for 
inciting  to  a  breach  of  the  peace. 

In  due  time  they  appeared  at  Bow  Street. 

Both  were  severely  reprimanded  by  the  beak, 
and  jointly  and  severally  bound  in  their  own 
recognisances.  Meanwhile,  the  piece,  proving  a 
failure,  was  withdrawn. 

Vining  had  to  withdraw  too.  Yet,  such  is  the 
fickleness  of  public  taste,  another  version  of  the 
play,  produced  shortly  afterwards  by  Mademoiselle 
Beatrice,  at  the  Olympic,  was  a  success ;  while  yet 
a  third,  "  Peril,"  was  one  of  the  greatest  successes 
ever  achieved  by  the  Bancrofts  during  then-  reign. 

Now  a  certain  distinguished  sohcitor  had  taken 
the  Princess's  to  exploit  his  wife  in  the  great  parts. 

204 


THE   CHANCE   OF   A   LIFETIME 

The  public  had  been  inappreciative  to  the  lady, 
and  though  Miss  Amy  Sedgwick,  Hermann  Vezin, 
George  Belmore,  and  other  popular  artistes  had 
been  added  to  the  company,  there  was  still  "  a 
beggarly  account  of  empty  benches." 

The  management  was  on  the  highway  to  ruin — 
had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  journey — when 
Alining  was  invited  to  take  the  helm  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  retrieve  matters. 

He  succeeded  in  keeping  things  afloat  for  a  few 
weeks ;  but  the  end  was  not  only  inevitable,  but 
imminent,  for  there  were  tradesmen's  bills,  printing 
and  posting,  arrears  of  advertisements,  arrears  of 
salaries,  arrears  of  rent,  rates  and  taxes,  proceedings 
in  the  Court  of  Queen's  Bench,  proceedings  in  the 
County  Court,  and  proceedings  in  Bankruptcy  were 
actually  threatened. 

A  heap  of  money  had  been  expended  on  scenery, 
costumes,  properties,  etc.  As  yet  judgment  had 
not  been  signed,  bailiffs  were  not  in,  but  in 
forty-eight  hours  they  were  due,  and  then  every- 
thing would  be  lost !  In  the  last  extremity  the 
hapless  manager  proposed  that  Vining  should 
take  the  "whole  bag  of  tricks"  for  £500  cash 
down, — provided  it  was  paid  at  ten  o'clock  next 
morning. 

\^ining  ran  down  to  his  cousin,  Wilde,  who 
was  "  Buckey's "  treasurer  at  the  Haymarket  and 
proprietor  of  the  Cafd  de  I'Europe  next  door. 

"  It  is  the  chance  of  a  lifetime,"  said  Wilde.  "  I 
haven't  got  the  coin  now,  but  I  will  get  it  if  you 
will  only  temporise.  Get  a  week's  option  —  I'll 
find  the  money  and  go  in  with  you  I " 

Armed  with  this  proposal  ^^ining  met  the 
unfortunate  manager  at  the  Albion  at  ten  o'clock 
next  morning  and  offered  to  provide  the  money  in 
a  week's  time. 

"Not  the  slightest  use,"  rejoined  Mr  L.  "I've 
had  a  straight  tip  that  judgment  w411  be  signed 
to-morrow,  the  baihffs  will  take  possession  an  hour 
later,  and  I  shall  be   left   high  and  dry  without  a 

205 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

postage  -  stamp,  perhaps  nailed  and  taken  to  the 
Fleet.  Besides,  there's  £500  due  at  to  -  morrow's 
treasury,  and  I  haven't  £5  to  meet  it. 

"  No ;  my  boy !  There's  only  one  way  out. 
I  must  make  a  bolt  of  it.  Give  me  £50  and  I'll 
clear  out  and  hand  over  to  you  every  stick  and 
stone  I  have  in  the  blasted  place  1 " 

Fortunately  Vining  had  this  amount,  and  a  little 
more,  in  the  bank.  "  Wait  here,"  said  he,  "  and 
I'll  bring  you  the  money." 

"  No,  no ;  not  here !  Come  to  Harry  Vyfers' 
office,  in  Chancery  Lane.  He  shall  prepare  a 
contract  to  make  you  safe ! " 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Vining  met  the  two 
lawyers,  handed  over  £50,  received  his  agreement 
duly  signed  and  attested,  and  an  inventory  of  his 
property. 

"  Harry,"  said  the  manager,  "  you'll  see  my 
friend  through.     Good-bye !     I'm  off." 

With  that  fifty  pounds  he  baffled  the  bailiffs, 
bolted  to  Boulogne,  and  settled  with  his  creditors 
at  his  convenience. 

When  the  venturous  \^ining  had  taken  stock 
of  his  pmchase  and  locked  up  the  theatre  he 
made  tracks  for  the  Adelphi.  On  his  way  there 
he  encountered  Boucicault,  whom  he  took  into  his 
confidence. 

"  Off  you  go  I "  said  Boucy.  *'  See  Webster 
before  he  gets  wind  through  another  channel. 
Howld  on — howld  on,  my  boy,  and  get  in  on  any 
terms  1  I've  a  piece  ready  —  a  great  part  in  it — • 
made  for  you.  Can  be  done  in  a  fortnight,  and 
will  make  your  fortune !  Off  with  you,  and  don't 
leave  owid  Ben  till  you've  got  the  theatre." 

"  When,"  continued  Vining,  "  I  told  Webster 
what  had  happened,  and  handed  him  the  keys,  he 
was  utterly  flabbergasted ;  but  when  I  said  I 
had  a  piece  ready  by  Boucicault,  could  be  done 
in  a  fortnight,  cordially  as  he  detested  Dion,  the 
dear  old  chap  jumped  at  the  idea,  returned  me 
the  keys,  told  me  to  go  ahead  and  the  lease  should 

206 


"LES   PAUVRES   DE   PARIS" 

be  prepared  right  off  the  reel — and  I  left  his  office 
manager  of  the  Princess's  !  " 

"  To  be  sure,  I'd  little  or  no  money,  but  I  had 
a  good  name  and  a  clean  slate,  and  credit  was  thrust 
upon  me  in  every  direction. 
New  brooms  sweep  clean  I 

Boucicault  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  in  a 
fortnight  the  theatre  opened  with  an  old  friend 
with  a  new  face,  "  Les  Pauvres  de  Paris,"  trans- 
formed into  "  The  Poor  of  London,"  in  which  a 
realistic  fire  scene  was  introduced.  Badger  fitted 
me  like  my  skin,  and  I  "  struck  ile "  with  my  very 
first  venture ! " 

Apropos  of  "  Les  Pauvres  de  Paris,"  Reade 
bought  the  English  rights  from  Auguste  Macquet, 
and  adapted  it  himself  under  the  title  of  "  Poverty 
and  Pride,"  but  his  version  (still  in  existence)  has 
never  been  acted  to  this  day. 

I  am  under  the  impression,  however,  that  Reade 
utilised  some  of  the  incidents  in  "  Hard  Cash." 

This,  however,  I  know  for  a  certainty  —  that 
some  years  previously  a  version  of  the  piece  was 
done,  by  his  permission,  for  Shepherd  and  Creswick, 
at  the  Surrey  by  Stirling  Coyne,  under  the  title  of 
"  Fraud  and  its  Victims,"- — indeed,  I  saw  it  the  first 
night.  Shepherd  (the  very  worst  minor-theatre  actor 
that  ever  trod  the  stage ! )  was  the  Badger ;  Cres- 
wick, a  sound,  sensible,  admirable  actor,  was  the 
interesting  hero,  in  which  he  created  an  effect  he 
scarcely  anticipated. 

When  the  dear  old  chap  turned  up  in  Seven 
Dials,  attired  as  the  redoubtable  Jeremy  Diddler, 
imploring  the  benevolent  costers  to  buy  a  box  of 
matches  from  a  poor  youth,  a  roar  arose  which 
might  have  been  heard  in  the  New  Cut,  and  a 
shower  of  coppers  descended  from  Olympus,  amidst 
which  the  tragedian  bolted,  and  the  curtain  fell 
somewhat  prematurely.  That  effect  was  never 
repeated. 

Prior  to  this  an  infringement  of  Reade's  rights 
occurred   under   some    bogus    management    at    the 

207 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

Strand,  and  he  inhibited  it,  in  consequence  of  which 
the  management  commenced  an  action  against  him 
for  hbel,  lost  it,  and  let  him  in  for  a  heavy  bill  of 
costs  in  defending  it  —  Avhereupon  he  "  went "  for 
manager  and  author,  and  landed  one  or  both  in 
Guildford  Jail. 

And  now,  after  all  this  time,  Boucy  (who  had 
already  done  the  piece  in  the  States  under  the 
title  of  "  The  Poor  of  New  York ")  was  coining 
money  with  it  in  Oxford  Street.  Hard  hnes  these 
for  Reade !  But  out  of  evil  came  good,  as  it  led  to 
friendly  relations  and  collaboration  with  the  most 
successful  dramatist  of  the  day. 

Vining's  next  card  was  another  new  version  of 
a  yet  older  acquaintance  — "  The  Bohemians  of 
Paris "  —  transmogi'ified  by  the  deft  Dion  into 
"  After  Dark  ; "  with  another  sensation — the  most 
remarkable  yet  attempted — an  audacious  crib  of 
the  railway  effect  from  Augustin  Daly's  blood- 
curdler  "Under  the  Gaslight,"  which  had  been 
the  sensation  of  New  York  the  previous  season, 
and  now  became  the  rage  of  London. 

After  this  came  "  Arrah  na  Pogue,"  which 
crowded  the  theatre  nightly,  and  continued  to  do 
so  till  30th  September  1865,  when  it  was  with- 
drawn to  make  room  for  "  It  is  Never  too  Late  to 
Mend." 

It  will  be  remembered  that  on  the  original  pro- 
duction considerable  friction  arose  between  Reade 
and  myself  because  I  declined  to  permit  certain 
realistic  effects. 

When  the  play  was  produced  on  the  4th  October, 
it  was  done  with  all  my  original  business,  music 
7nise-en-scene,  etc.,  but  unfortunately  for  himself  the 
author  was  permitted  to  have  his  own  way  with 
reference  to  the  revolting  incidents  which  1  had 
suppressed. 

Being  advised  of  this  circumstance,  I  decided 
on  being  conspicuous  by  my  absence  on  the  first 
night. 

The  result  was  precisely  what  I  had  anticipated, 

208 


PREMIERE   AT   THE   PRINCESS'S 

and  the  E7ri  (which  for  months  had  chronicled 
the  success  of  the  play  in  the  country)  thus  re- 
corded its  reception  in  to^\'n  : 

'  A  storm  of  indignation  broke  forth  during  the 
last  scene  of  the  second  act,  which,  after  some 
ominous  premonitory  mutterings,  threatened  to  bring 
the  piece  to  a  premature  termination. 

\^oices  were  heard  from  the  stalls,  loudly  pro- 
testing against  the  representation  as  revolting,  and 
one  of  the  dissentients  whose  excitement  was 
stronger  than  his  discretion,  made  himself  so  con- 
spicuous that  he  was  readily  recognised  as  a 
well  -  known  dramatic  critic,  who  might  perhaps 
more  judiciously  have  reserved  his  comments  for 
the  morning  paper  he  represented. 

The  clamour  thiis  raised  caused  Mr  Vining  for 
a  time  to  drop  the  character  of  Tom  Robinson 
and  to  address  the  audience  as  follows : 

'  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  with  due  submission 
to  public  opinion,  permit  me  to  call  your  atten- 
tion to  one  fact  which  appears  to  have  been  over- 
looked. 

It  has  been  acknowledged  that  the  book  from 
which  this  play  is  taken  has  done  a  great  deal 
of  good. 

We  are  not  here  representing  a  system,  but 
the  abuse  of  a  system,  and  I  may  refer  you  to 
the  Blue-books' 

•'  (A  voice  from  the  pit  here  exclaimed :  "  We 
want  no  Blue-books  on  the  stage ! ") 

' — for  the  truthfulness  of  these  things.  This 
question  can  be  discussed  elsewhere,  and  I  beheve 
I   am   not   wrong   in   supposing   that    most   of   the 

dissentients  have '  (pausing  significantly)  '  not  come 

in  free  ! ' 

'  After  this  the  performance  was  resumed,  but 
when  the  boy  Josephs  (JNIiss  Louisa  Moore)  was 
on  the  point  of  committing  suicide  by  hanging, 
an  indescribable  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  the 
whole  of  the  spectators,  and  several  ladies  rose  and 
left  the  house.' 

0  209 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

When  I  saw  the  papers  next  day  I  telegraphed 
Reade :  '  Cut — cut — cut ! '  and  he  rephed  :  '  I  have 
cut.     Come  and  see  1 ' 

The  objectionable  interpolations,  were  omitted  on 
the  second  performance,  and  despite,  perhaps  in 
consequence  of,  the  ordeal  through  which  it  had 
passed  (since  the  scandalous  scene  of  the  first  night 
proved  a  sensational  advertisement)  the  play  proved 
ultimately  a  gigantic  success. 

Reade,  who  took  exception  to  certain  features 
of  the  performance,  notably  to  the  rendering  of 
the  music,  vented  his  wrath  in  the  following  verses 
suggested  by  the  manner  in  which  the  orchestra 
performed  the  famous  melody,  '  See  the  Rosy 
Morn  appearing,'  in  the  third  act. 


See — the  old — Cow — is — a  dying 
And — the  dismal — crows — are  flying 
North — and  South — and  West — and  East 
All — to  feed — on  one — poor  beast ! 


Kiddies — mourn — your — empty — cups. 
Kittens — meow — howl — oh  ye  pups, 
Blood — from  flint — did — never — flow 
Nor  mil — ky  stream — from — a — dead  cow. 

See — the  old — Cow  is — ,  etc. 


The  author's  nephew,  my  friend  Arthur  Reade 
(superintendent  of  Charing  Cross  Hospital),  who  was 
an  eye-witness  of  the  scene,  has  been  kind  enough 
to  send  me  his  impressions  of  the  first  night,  and 
here  they  are : 

When  '  Never  too  Late  to  Mend '  was  about 
to  be  produced  in  London,  in  wishing  Uncle 
Charles  success,  I  said :  '  I  hope  it  will  run  one 
hundred  and  fifty  nights  ! '  He  replied  :  '  If  it  does, 
my  boy,  I  will  give  you  a  five-pound  note.'  It  ran, 
I  think,  one  hundred  and  sixty -five  nights,  and,  of 
course,  I  had  my  'fiver.' 

I  was  there  the  first  night,  and  can  recall  the 
extraordinary  mumiur   that   ran  through  the  house 

210 


TOMLINS   AND   CO. 

when  the  curtam  rose  on  the  prison  scene  and  dis- 
covered the  tread-mill  at  work,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  tremendous  row  at  the  end  of  the  prison 
scene,  when  Josephs  dies  in  the  arms  of  Tom 
Robinson.  The  excitement  culminated  at  the  end 
of  the  act.  Though  the  author's  foes  were  few, 
they  were  noisy  and  persistent.  His  friends,  how- 
ever, would  not  allow  them  to  have  it  all  their  own 
way.  One  excited  old  gentleman  got  up  in  the 
stalls  (I  believe  Mr  Tomlins,  the  dramatic  critic 
attached  to  the  Morning  Advertiser)  and  shouted 
himself  hoarse  with  his  protests,  until  advised  to 
go  out  by  an  Oxford  youth  who  was  sitting  with 
my  brother  and  my  cousin  Winwood  Reade,  then 
just  home  from  Africa.  Finally,  George  Vining, 
who  played  "  Tom  Robinson,"  came  forward  and 
made  an  appeal  for  order,  informing  the  malcontents 
that  if  they  would  leave  the  theatre,  their  money 
would  be  returned  at  the  pay  place.  The  baffled 
Tomlins  left  or  was  ejected,  protesting  against 
*  brutal  realism,'  and  the  play  proceeded.  From 
my  seat  in  the  dress-circle  I  could  see  the  author. 
He  never  moved  a  muscle  or  stin-ed  in  his  chair, 
nor  paid  any  heed  to  the  lady  by  his  side,  who 
seemed  greatly  agitated. 

When  the  curtain  fell  he  was  loudly  called  for, 
and  at  last  came  forward  in  his  box  and  made  a 
stately  bow. 

I  saw  the  last  night  as  well  as  the  first  of  this 
play.  Indeed  on  the  last  night  uncle  took  me 
round  behind  the  scenes,  my  first  experience  of  the 
world  behind  the  footlights.  Tom  Robinson  was 
engaged  in  his  pathetic  remonstrance  with  the 
brutal  Hawes,  and  when  he  came  off,  he  pushed 
his  convict  cap  off  his  head  and  said  to  uncle : 
'  Good  evening,  Reade, — very  hot,  isn't  it  ? '  At 
the  end  of  the  prison  scene  the  applause  was  hearty, 
but  not  sufficiently  prolonged  to  amount  to  a 
'call.'  Josephs  was  played  by  Miss  Louisa  Moore. 
When  the  curtain  fell  upon  Josephs'  death,  up 
jumps   the   dead    boy  and    says    to    Alining :    '  The 

211 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

wretches  I      'Tis   the  first  time  they  haven't  given 
us  a  call — and  the  last  night,  too  I ' 

->^        "^  Miss    Adah    Isaacs    Menken,    a    beautiful    but 

^gkJ^  '      somewhat  eccentric  woman,  shared  a  private  box  on 

-,f\  *  this  occasion  with  John  Oxenford,  the  most  eminent 

*^  dramatic   critic   of  the   period,  and   she  assured  me 

that  many  of  the  minor  fry  of  journalism  were  as 

ostentatiously  hostile  to  the  play  and  the  author  as 

Mr  Tomlins  himself. 

That  gentleman  sought  to  justify  his  attitude 
in  an  article  published  over  a  7/07/;-  de  phime  in  the 
Reader^  which  eUcited  the  following  scathing  rejoinder 
from  the  author : 


To  the  Editor  of  the  "  Reader  " 

'Sir, — You  have  published  (inadvertently,  I  hope) 
two  columns  of  intemperate  abuse  of  my  drama, 
and  mendacious  personalities  aimed  at  myself. 

The  author  of  all  this  spite  is  not  ashamed  to 
sympathise  with  the  heartless  robbers  from  whom 
justice  and  law  have  rescued  my  creation  and  my 
property. 

(Query.  Was  he  not  set  on  by  those  very 
robbers  ?) 

He  even  eulogises  a  ruffian  who,  on  the  4th 
October,  raised  a  disturbance  in  the  Princess's 
Theatre,  and  endeavoured  to  put  down  my  play  by 
clamour,  but  was  called  to  order  by  the  respectable 
portion  of  the  audience. 

Have  you  any  sense  of  justice  and  fair  play  where 
the  party  assailed  is  only  an  author  of  repute,  and  the 
assailant  has  the  advantage  of  being  an  obscure 
scribbler  ?  If  so,  you  will  give  me  a  hearing  in  my 
defence.  I  reply  in  one  sentence  to  two  columns 
of  venom  and  drivel.  I  just  beg  to  inform  honest 
men  and  women  that  your  anonymous  contributor — 
who  sides  with  piratical  thieves  against  the  honest 
inventor,  and  disparages  Charles  Reade,  and  applauds 

212 


"READE'S   LUCK" 

one    Tomlins — is    TouiUns. — I    am,    your    obedient 
servant,  Charles  Reade." 


Reade  was  not  only  a  good  hater,  but  he  had 
a  most  tenacious  memory,  and  actually  eighteen 
years  after  that  memorable  night  at  the  Princess's 
he  wrote  the  following  ferocious  Philippic  on  the 
subject : — 

Reade's  Luck 

'  Autobiogi*aphy  is  a  vile,  egotistical  thing.  It 
always  must  be.  But  there  is  a  set-ofF:  you  learn 
something  real  about  the  man,  and  that  is  what  you 
will  never  learn  from  anybody  else. 

Let  this,  and  my  '  recent  WTongs,'  be  my  excuse 
for  troubling  you  with  one  chapter  of  my  public 
life.  I  cannot  divest  such  a  thing  of  egotism  any 
more  than  I  can  wash  the  spots  out  of  a  leopard ; 
but  I  promise  it  shall  not  be  unmixed  egotism,  but 
shall  lead  to  general  conclusions  of  public  utility. 

In  that  reservoir  of  delights,  the  '  Arabian 
Nights,'  nothing  is  more  charming  than  the  story 
of  '  Sinbad  the  Sailor,'  and  the  ai-t  with  which  it 
is  introduced :  a  poor,  half-starved  fellow,  mis- 
fortune's butt,  comes  upon  a  gay  company  feasting 
luxuriously ;  at  the  head  of  the  table  sits  a  white- 
headed  senior,  the  host ;  homage  surrounds  him ; 
slaves  watch  his  hand  ;  friends  hang  upon  his  words  ; 
he  is  a  type  of  ease,  luxury,  wealth,  respectability. 
The  worn  and  hungry  traveller  stands  apart  and 
glares  upon  banquet  and  host,  and  his  heart  sinks 
lower  than  ever.  Contrasting  his  hard  lot  with  the 
luxury  before  him,  he  murmurs  at  the  inequality  of 
things  and  the  injustice  of  fortune. 

The  next  moment  he  would  gladly  recall  his 
words,  for  a  servant  comes  and  tells  him  the  master 
of  the  feast  would  speak  to  him  ;  he  goes  trembling, 
and  expecting  bastinado. 

213 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

'  Sit  down  by  me,'  says  the  host,  and  orders  his 
plate  to  be  heaped. 

AVhen  he  has  eaten  his  fill  the  venerable  senior 
says  quietly  :  '  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  my  life.' 

Then  the  lucky  man  tells  the  unlucky  one  such 
a  tale  of  adventures,  perils,  wounds,  hardships, 
sufferings,  and  despairs,  as  makes  the  unlucky  man 
think  light  of  his  own  griefs.  Through  all  these 
dangers  and  horrors  had  Sinbad  the  persevering 
passed,  ere  he  got  to  be  Sinbad  the  seeming  lucky. 

Now  writers  are  not  Sinbads,  nor  lead  adventurous 
lives ;  yet  at  the  bottom  of  things,  dissimilar  on  the 
surface,  lies  often  a  point  of  similitude.  And  so 
when  I  read,  or  hear  people  talk  of  one  Charles 
Reade's  universal  success,  of  his  flashy  but  popular 
style,  of  his  ease  and  affluence,  I  wear  a  sickly 
smile,  and  think  sometimes  of  '  Sinbad  the  Sailor,' 
not  lucky,  but  very  unlucky  and  persevering — 
for,  by  heaven,  it  has  never  been  smooth  sailing 
with  me  I 

In  the  year  1835  I  began  to  make  notes  with  a 
view  to  writing  fiction,  but,  fixing  my  mind  on  its 
masterpieces  in  all  languages  and  all  recorded  times, 
I  thought  so  highly  of  that  great  and  difficult  art 
that  for  fourteen  years  I  never  ventured  to  offer  my 
crude  sketches  to  the  public. 

I  began  at  last,  and  wrote  several  dramas,  not  one 
of  tvhicJi  any  manager  would  read ;  but  theatrical 
England  at  this  time  was  a  mere  province  of  France. 
Observing  which,  I  crept  into  the  theatre  at  last 
with  a  translation  from  the  French. 

From  that  I  went  to  better  things,  and  wrote 
several  plays  alone,  and  in  conjunction  with  my  friend 
Mr  Tom  Taylor ;  but  though  my  talent,  whatever  it 
may  be,  is  rather  for  the  drama  than  the  novel,  I 
was,  after  a  hard  fight,  literally  driven  into  the  novel 
by  bad  laws  and  corrupt  practices. 

^ad  laws. — The  international  copyright  law  of 
1852  was  intended  to  give  a  French  dramatist  the 
sole  right  to  translate  and  act  his  play  in  England 
for  five  years,  and  so  encourage  home  invention  by 

214 


ON   THE   WARPATH 

restraining  the  former  theft.  But  while  the  act 
was  being  drawn,  an  EngHsh  play-wright  or  two, 
who  had  all  their  lives  stolen  French  ideas,  and  held 
it  a  point  of  honour  to  die  as  they  had  lived,  crawled 
up  the  back  stairs  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
earwigged  the  late  Lord  Palmerston.  He,  good 
man,  meant  no  worse,  and  saw  no  deeper,  than  this : 
'  Let  us  make  the  best  shopkeeper's  bargain  we 
can  for  England.'  But  the  result  was  that  the 
English  Sovereign,  the  EngUsh  Peers,  and  the 
English  Commons,  took  their  instructions  from  a 
handful  of  impenitent  thieves,  and  disgraced  them- 
selves and  the  nation.  They  treacherously  conveyed 
into  this  otherwise  noble  statute  a  pei-fidious  clause, 
allowing  '  fair  adaptations  and  imitations '  of  every 
foreign  drama  to  be  played  in  England,  in  defiance 
of  the  foreign  inventor. 

This  viper  in  the  basket  made  the  protecting 
clauses  waste-paper  and  perpetuated  dramatic  piracy 
from  foreigners  in  its  old,  convenient,  and  habitual 
form  of  colourable  piracy. 

After  this,  don't  laugh  at  the  words  Perfidc 
Albion,  for  these  words  are  true,  by  God  I 

AVell,  this  wicked  and  perfidious  law  enabled 
a  portion  of  the  anonymous  press  to  monopolise 
the  theatres,  or  nearly.  No  fool  can  invent  a  single 
good  drama,  but  any  fool  can  adapt  two  hundred 
good  dramas  from  the  French ;  and  any  fool  can 
write — just  as  any  fool  could  spit — the  cant  and 
twaddle,  and  impudence  and  ignorance,  that  some 
folk  adorn  by  the  acre  with  the  blasphemous 
title  of  "dramatic  criticism." 

So  when  newspapers  increased  in  number  and 
size  there  arose  a  camaraderie,  or  compact  band  of 
play-wright  critics :  writers,  calamitous  to  the  drama 
and  fatal,  above  all,  to  the  dramatic  inventor.  This 
gang  worked  in  concert  as  they  work  to  this  day. 
They  toadied  actors,  however  wretched.  They  praised 
every  piece  which  was  written  by  one  of  their  gang. 
They  flew  like  hornets  at  every  outsider  who  did  not 
square     them    with    champagne    suppers    or    other 

215 


uu^ 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

douceurs^  pecuniary  bribes  included ;  and  then,  as 
now,  they  sometimes  levied  blackmail  on  a  manager 
by  a  dodge  I  shall  expose  by-and-by. 

The  managers  of  theatres — most  of  them  actors 
and  extremely  sensitive  to  public  praise  or  censure — 
truckled  to  these  small  fry  invested  with  large 
powers  by  reckless  journals,  and  would  rather  take 
a  French  piece,  sure  to  be  praised  by  this  little 
trades'  union,  than  an  English  piece,  sure  to  be 
censured  by  them. 

I  struggled  against  this  double  shuffle  for  about 
four  years,  and  then  I  gave  it  up  in  despair,  and 
took  to  novel-writing — against  the  grain — and  left 
the  stage  for  years. 

During  my  period  of  enforced  exile  from  the 
stage  I  suffered  intellectual  hell.  I  used  to  go  to 
the  theatres  and  see  that  one  piece  of  unnatural 
trash  after  another  could  get  a  hearing  yet  the 
market  was  hermetically  sealed  to  me.  It  is  usual 
under  these  circumstances  for  the  disappointed  man 
to  turn  anonymous  writer,  call  himself  a  critic  or 
judge,  and,  in  that  sacred  character,  revenge  him- 
self on  the  successful.  Unfortunately,  my  principles 
and  my  reverence  for  that  great,  holy,  incorruptible 
science,  criticism,  did  not  permit  me  this  Christian 
solace.  So  I  suffered  in  silence,  and  with  a  fortitude 
which  the  writers,  who  babble  about  my  irritability, 
have  shown  they  cannot  imitate  in  a  far  milder  case. 

In  1865  I  tried  the  London  stage  again  under 
other  circumstances,  to  explain  which  I  must  go 
back  a  httle. 

At  Christmas  1852  Drury  Lane  was  in  the 
hands  of  a  gentleman  with  great  courage  and  small 
capital.  He  invested  his  all  in  the  pantomime ;  and 
the  pantomime  failed  so  utterly  that  after  one  week 
they  took  it  off,  and  pitchforked  on  to  the  stage  a 
drama  called  "  Gold,"  which  I  had  flung  together 
in  the  same  hasty  way.  This  drama,  though  loosely 
constructed,  was  English,  and  hit  the  time.  Not 
being  stolen  from  the  French  by  any  member  of 
the  trades'  union  of  play-wright  critics  it  was  much 

216 


m   THE   COMMON  PLEAS 

dispraised  in  the  papers,  and  crowded  the  theatre, 
and  saved  the  manager. 

Afterwards,  when  the  play-wright  critics  drove 
me  out  of  the  theatre,  I  was  obhged  to  run  cunning, 
and  turned  many  of  my  suppressed  plays  into  stories. 
I  dealt  so  with  '  Gold.'  I  added  a  new  vein  of 
incidents  taken  from  prison  life,  and  so  turned  the 
drama  '  Gold '  into  the  novel,  '  It  is  Never  too 
Late  to  Mend." 

But  lo !  the  novel  being  \vi'itten  by  a  dramatist, 
naturally  presented  fresh  dramatic  features,  and 
tempted  me  to  reconstruct  a  more  effectiAc  drama. 
I  offered  it  to  many  managers.  They  declined, 
and  gave  their  reasons — if  I  may  venture  to  apply 
that  term  to  the  logic  of  gorillas. 

Presently  piratical  scribblers  got  hold  of  the 
subject,  and  gorilla  logic  melted  away  directly  in 
the  sunshine  of  theft.  Managers,  both  in  town  and 
country,  were  ready  to  treat  for  the  rejected  subject 
the  moment  it  was  offered  them,  not  by  the 
inventor  and  the  Avriter,  but  by  scribblers  and 
pirates.  Several  piratical  versions  were  played,  in 
toAATi  and  country,  with  a  success  unparalleled  in 
those  days.  Saloons  rose  into  theatres  by  my  brains, 
stolen ;  managers  made  at  least  seventy  thousand 
pounds  out  of  my  brains,  stolen  ;  but  not  one  would 
pay  the  inventor  a  shiUing  nor  give  his  piece  a 
hearing ! 

At  last  this  impatient  Charles  Reade,  like  his 
predecessor  in  patience,  Job,  lost  patience,  and 
went  to  law  with  the  thieves  and  the  dealers  in 
stolen  goods. 

It  was  a  long  and  hard  fight  that  would  have 
worn  out  a  poet  or  two ;  but  after  three  suits  in 
the  Common  Pleas,  and  three  injunctions  in  equity, 
I  crushed  the  thieves,  and  recovered  my  property. 

Then  I  tried  the  London  managers  of  the  day 
again.  I  said :  '  My  amiable,  though  too  larcenous 
friends,  here  is  an  approved  subject  which  you  can 
no  longer  steal ;  but  that  is  your  misfortune,  not 
your  fault ;  why  not  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job, 

217 


IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND 

and  put  a  few  thousand  pounds  into  your  pockets 
by  dealing  with  the  inventor  ? ' 

No  ;  not  one  would  deal  with  a  writer  for  his  own 
brains. 

Hares  run  through  the  woods  in  tracks ;  men  run 
through  life  in  grooves  ;  and  these  had  a  fixed  habit  of 
dealing  with  scribblers  and  thieves  for  the  inventor's 
brains,  and  they  could  not  get  out  of  that  groove  at 
any  price. 

Seven  mortal  years  did  I  offer  my  now  popular 
drama,  '  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  INIend,'  to  these 
bigots  in  vain. 

Seven  mortal  years  did  I  see  false,  un-English, 
inhuman  trash  played  at  the  very  theatres  which 
refused  me  a  hearing. 

At  length  I  found  a  manager  with  a  man's  head 
on  his  shoulders  and  a  man's  heart  in  his  body,  who 
produced  my  play  in  the  country,  where  it  achieved 
an  immediate  and  pronounced  success ;  whereupon 
London  (which  had  previously  ignored  its  existence 
and  mine)  followed  suit,  and  it  was  brought  out 
at  the  Princess's  on  the  4th  of  October  1865. 

The  play-wright  critics  were  there  in  full  force,  and 
several  of  them  sat  together  in  the  stalls  as  usual. 
One  would  have  thought  the  circumstances  under 
which  the  play  was  played  were  of  a  nature  to 
disarm  hostility.  I  had  not  troubled  the  theatre 
for  ten  years ;  and  even  now  I  was  only  pro- 
ducing, for  my  own  benefit,  a  play  that  had 
been  fully  discussed  and  approved  when  played 
for  the  benefit  of  misappropriators.  One  might 
naturally  think  it  would  be  hard  to  find,  even 
amongst  the  lowest  of  mankind,  a  person  who 
did  not  feel  some  little  compassion  for  an  inventor 
who  had  been  shouldered  off  the  stage  for  years  by 
means  of  his  own  brains,  stolen ;  and  who  now 
asked  merely  a  percentage  on  his  brains,  and  the 
same  justice  which  had  always  been  accorded  to 
those  brains,  when  sold  for  their  own  benefit  by 
dunces  and  thieves ! 

But,  if  you  want  a  grain  of  humanity,  or  honour, 

218 


VICTORIOUS   AT   LAST 

or  justice,  or  manly  feeling  of  any  kind,  don't  you  go 
to  a  trades'  union,  for  you  won't  find  it  there.  The 
play-wright  critics  concerted  the  destruction  of  the 
drama  on  the  first  night.  They  were  seen  to  egg  on 
Mr  Tomlins,  the  critic  of  the  31orning  Advertiser ^ 
to  howl  down  the  prison  scenes  by  brute  clamour. 
Tomlins,  being  drunk,  "  his  custom  ever  in  the  after- 
noon," lent  himself  to  this  with  inebriate  zeal,  and  got 
up  a  disturbance  which,  with  a  feeble  manager,  would 
infallibly  have  ended  in  the  curtain  being  let  down 
and  the  play  withdrawn  for  ever.  But,  for  once,  the 
clique  ran  their  heads  against  a  man.  George  Vining 
defied  the  cabal  from  the  stage ;  and  at  last  some 
fellows  in  the  gallery,  shaking  off  their  amazement 
at  the  misconduct  below,  called  down,  '  Turn  the 
blackguards  out ! '  Now,  when  the  dishonest  black- 
guards in  the  stalls  found  the  honest  blackguards 
in  the  gallery  had  spotted  them,  they  shut  up,  and 
prepared  their  articles  for  next  morning  in  dead 
silence. 

Of  course,  they  wrote  the  piece  down  unani- 
mously. But  they  had  overrated  their  power. 
The  public  got  scent  of  the  swindle,  rushed  to  the 
theatre,  and  carried  the  drama  triumphantly  for  148 
nights.  The  profits  were  about  £8000,  of  which 
half  came  to  me  on  shares.  The  drama  has  out- 
lived all  the  plays  that  were  lauded  to  the  skies  that 
year  by  the  venal  clique.  It  was  played  in  six  houses 
this  year,  1873.' 

Thirty  years  have  passed  since  the  foregoing 
lines  were  written,  yet,  during  the  whole  of  that 
period,  no  single  year  has  elapsed  in  which  this 
once  despised  play  has  not  been  acted  in,  at  least, 
half  of  the  principal  theatres  in  the  United  Kingdom  ! 


End  of  Book  the  Second 


219 


Book  the  Third 

RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Extending  over  an  Intimacy  or  Twenty  Years 


"  Ambrosius  loved  him  . 
And  honoured  him,  and  wrought  into  his  heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  within, 
To  answer  that  which  came." 


Book  the  Third 
RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

CHAPTER  PAOE 

I.  naboth's  vineyard            .             .  .  223 

II.    LIFE    AT    ALBERT    GATE           .                  .  .  246 

III.  THE   MYSTERY    OF   THE   NEW    CUT     .  .  282 

IV.  "  GRIFFITH     GAUNT,"     "  FOUL     PLAY,"  AND 

"  PUT   YOURSELF   IN    HIS    PLACE  "  .  .  301 

V.    TWO   METROPOLITAN    MANAGERS        .  .  323 

VI.    AN    OBJECT-LESSON    FOR   MANAGERS  .  335 


THIS    PICTURE   WAS     CHRISTENED     BT     THE     AUTHOR 

"the  benevolent  imbecile!" 


CHAPTER   1 

NABOTH'S   VINEYARD 

Exodus  from  the  Haunted  House  in  St  George's  Road  to  Naboth's 
Vineyard  —  Albert  Gate  —  The  Famous  Apartment  {see  "  A 
Terrible  Temptation"),  "Which  thus  a  double  Debt  con- 
trived to  pay :  Dining-Room  by  Night,  Studio  by  Day " — 
Plays  and  Players  —  Novels  —  Fiddles  —  Pictures  —  Another 
Law-Suit  —  The  Doctor  plays  the  Devil  with  the  Lawyers 
and  wins  his  Case  —  The  best  abused  Man  in  London  —  A 
slight  Retrospect  from  1856  to  1863  —  Becomes  acquainted 
with  Bulwer  Lytton  and  Charles  Dickens — A  Dinner  at  the 
Star  and  Garter,  and  a  Reading  of  a  Play  —  Failure  of 
"Dora"  at  the  Adelphi  —  Crucifixion  of  a  hapless  Scene- 
Painter  —  Production  and  Damnation  of  "  The  Double 
Marriage  "  at  the  New  Queen's  Theatre 

In  1868  Reade  quitted  Bolton  Row  and  took  up 
his  abode  for  a  short  time  in  Saint  George's  Road,  in 
a  locality  which  used  to  be  called  PimUco,  but  was 
then  budding  and  has  since  blossomed  into  South 
Belgi'avia. 

The  house,  which  occupies  a  commanding  position 
at  the  corner  of  two  streets,  looks  straight  up  to  the 
river,  including  an  outlook  on  four  different  streets, 
and  is  situated  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  very  spot 
where  these  lines  are  now  being  written. 

When  I  turn  out  for  an  occasional  lonely  ramble, 
or  to  post  my  letters  in  the  pillar-box  opposite,  I  am 
irresistibly  attracted  to  the  central  window  of  that 
house.  By  day  I  see  bright  young  faces ;  by  night 
when  the  blinds  are  down,  and  the  light  from  within 
makes  the  jalousy  red  as  blood,  strains  of  music  and 
sounds  of  joyous  voices  and  happy  laughter  remind 
me  of  the  friends  of  my  youth,  and  recall  memories 
of  pleasant  times  gone,  never  to  return. 

223 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

The  very  last  time  I  was  in  that  house  ('twas  on 
a  Sunday)  we  dined  early  for  I  had  to  go  to  the 
North.  It  had  been  a  lovely  day,  and  I  had  a  fancy 
to  go  down  the  river  as  far  as  the  Temple.  They  all, 
Reade,  Mrs  Seymour,  Doctor  and  Mrs  Christian 
(friends  from  Canada),  Mrs  Zenda,  the  Hon.  Mrs 
Delamere,  George  and  Mrs  Vining,  walked  with  me 
to  Pimlico  Pier,  and  \^ining  took  it  into  his  head  to 
accompany  me  to  town. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  the  run  of  '  Never  too 
Late.'  He  told  me  he  was  bound  by  his  lease  to 
expend  £6000  in  decorations  for  the  ensuing  season, 
and  he  had  a  presentiment  of  ill-luck. 

'  I  have  tried  fires,  railway  trains,  sinking  bridges, 
and  tread-mills,'  said  he,  'and  don't  know  what  to 
do  next.' 

*  Try  a  balloon  ! '  I  said. 

He  did  not  rise,  however,  to  that  aerial  suggestion. 

Poor  George !  his  premonition  turned  out  un- 
fortunately to  be  prophetic.  His  decorations  made 
a  sensation,  but  his  opening  piece  did  not  I 

To  atone  for  ultra-sensationalism  he  went  into 
the  opposite  extreme,  commenced  with  a  mag- 
nificent revival  of  'Acis  and  Galatea,'  which 
proved  a  colossal  failure,  —  then  failure  followed 
after  failure. 

At  this  juncture  his  father,  James  Vining,  who 
had  made  some  money  which  he  intended  to  leave 
George,  insisted  upon  his  retirement,  lest  his  modest 
patrimony  should  be  engulfed  in  the  maelstrom  of 
management.     Like  a  dutiful  son  he  obeyed. 

Observe  how  history  repeats  itself. 

Vining,  after  making  a  fortune  by  '  The  Poor 
of  London,'  'After  Dark,'  'Arrah  na  Pogue,'  and 
*  Never  too  Late,'  lost  it  all  *  in  one  fell  swoop '  on 
his  decorations  and  his  attempt  to  elevate  public  taste 
by  the  production  of  '  Acis  and  Galatea.'  Similarly, 
ten  or  twelve  years  later,  JNIr  Walter  Gooch,  who 
had  coined  money  with  a  revival  of  'Never  too 
Late,'  and  a  production  of  'Drink,'  lost  everything 
in   rebuilding  the  theatre,  and   in   endeavouring  to 

224 


BOOTH  AND  BARRETT 

exploit  Edwin  Booth — the  distinguished  American 
actor  who  unfortunately  failed  to  hit  the  public  taste, 
and  whose  failure  was  enhanced  by  the  most  prolonged 
and  disastrous  snowstorm  of  the  past  half-century. 

At  the  last  gasp  Gooch  invited  Wilson  Barrett 
to  step  into  the  breach.  He,  too,  commenced  his 
campaign  by  endeavouring  to  exploit  another  dis- 
tinguished American  (in  petticoats),  with  the  result 
that  at  the  end  of  the  first  three  months  of  his  cam- 
paign he  was  saddled  with  a  loss  of  nearly  £12,000  ! 

INly  good  friend  Wilson,  however,  is  so 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  national  characteristic, 
that  he  never  knows  when  he  is  beaten.  Hence, 
he  held  on  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  changed  defeat 
to  victory,  and  succeeded  in  ultimately  clearing 
thirty  or  forty  thousand  pounds  during  his  tenancy ! 

Since  his  retirement  the  Princess's  has  passed 
through  every  vicissitude  of  fortune.  The  latest 
is,  however,  not  the  least  remarkable. 

At  its  very  lowest  ebb — when  failure  had  followed 
failure — one  of  my  "boys,"  who  had  served  his  ap- 
prenticeship with  me,  actually  cleared  nearly  £6000 
in  twelve  weeks  out  of  a  crude,  extravagant,  ultra- 
montane drama ;  and  probably  might  have  cleared 
£6000  more,  had  not  the  London  County  Council 
insisted  upon  his  expending  £6000  on  certain  struc- 
tural alterations.  Whereupon,  my  astute  pi^otege, 
believing  discretion  to  be  the  better  part  of  valour, 
discreetly  concluded  to  suspend  the  run  of  the  piece 
in  towTi,  and  has  sent  no  less  than  three  companies 
out  with  it  into  the  countiy. 

The  termination  of  ^^ining's  tenure  of  the 
Princess's  did  not  deter  him  from  acting  elsewhere, 
and  he  played  two  or  three  engagements,  one  with 
dubious  results  at  the  Holborn  in  the  '  Rag  Picker 
of  Paris'  (one  of  Lemaitre's  great  parts) ;  another  at 
the  Olympic  as  Count  Fosco  in  Wilkie  Collins' 
prosaic  and  long-winded  version  of  his  own  striking 
story  of  'The  \Voman  in  White.' 

By-the-by,  this  work,  in  the  construction  of  which 
Collins  was  assisted  by  Regnier,  the  famous  '  coach ' 
p  225 


RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

of  the  Fran9ais,  was  the  precursor  of  the  numerous 
inarticulate  plays  which  terminate  upon  an  empty- 
stage  and  a  mere  note  of  interrogation. 

The  "  haunted  house  "  in  St  George's  Road  was  a 
little  out  of  the  track  of  ships,  so  Reade  removed 
to  Albert  Gate,  where  he  took  up  his  abode  in  the 
mid-summer  of  1869. 

Albert  Gate,  as  all  the  world  knows,  is  almost  the 
*  hub '  of  London. 

To  the  front,  exactly  opposite,  stands  Sloane 
Street  and  Knightsbridge ;  to  the  rear,  a  command- 
ing garden  which  abuts  upon  the  Park ;  to  the  right, 
Kensington,  Kew,  Kingston,  Richmond,  St  Margaret's, 
Twickenham,  and  Hampton  Court ;  to  the  left,  the 
Gate  itself,  Hyde  Park  Corner  and  Piccadilly.  A 
cab-stand  is  within  a  stone's  throw  with  a  shilling 
fare  to  the  Strand  and  Covent  Garden,  and  omnibuses 
(not  that  Reade  ever  used  one,  for  he  detested  them) 
to  all  parts,  pass  to  and  fro  every  two  minutes. 

It  occurred  to  a  certain  noble  lord  that  a  new 
entrance  to  the  Park  from  Sloane  Street  would  be  a 
public  benefit  (and  his  lordship  was  right !),  but,  as  the 
proposed  road  would  cut  through  Reade's  house,  he 
naturally  objected,  and  when  the  hereditary  legis- 
lator endeavoured  to  smuggle  a  private  Bill  through 
Parliament,  Reade's  indignation  knew  no  bounds. 
He  'went'  for  the  would-be  encroacher  in  'Jupiter 
Junior,'  stigmatising  him  as  an  up-to-date  Ahab, 
and  stuck  up  a  huge  signboard  inscribed  '  Naboth's 
Vineyard  ! '  outside  the  threatened  house. 

He  then  retained  Sir  Henry  (now  Lord  Henry) 
James  to  oppose  the  Bill,  which  (thanks  to  that 
eloquent  and  learned  advocate)  was  ignominiously 
kicked  out. 

This  pleasant  home  of  delightful  memories,  though 
cosy  and  comfortable,  was  not  spacious  ;  but  its  owner 
was  fertile  in  expedients,  and  he  made  a  new  lion's 
den,  big  enough  for  a  menagerie,  by  throwing  the 
passage  into  the  drawing-room,  annexing  four-and- 
twenty  square  feet  of  garden  at  the  back,  forming 
one  large  room  with  French  windows  opening  to  the 

226 


TASTE   IN   PICTURES 

ground.  This  palatial  apartment  served  a  quintuple 
purpose.  Breakfast  in  the  morning  at  nine,  with  the 
blessed  sunshine  illumining  every  nook  and  cranny ; 
after  breakfast,  hey  presto !  'twas  changed  to  a 
workship  (a  '  littery '  as  well  as  a  literary  one  !)  ; 
at  one,  he,  or  we,  had  to  clear  out  while,  willy-nilly, 
the  litter  was  cleared  away  for  a  reception-room. 
The  next  change  took  place  at  night,  when  it  became 
a  dining-room ;  whilst  after  dinner,  it  served  for  a 
drawing-room,  and  a  very  charming  one  it  made, 
with  its  wealth  of  flowers,  of  bric-a-brac,  of  mar- 
queterie,  and  its  profusion  of  wax-lights.  There  was 
never  any  gas  where  Reade  lived :  he  couldn't  abide 
the  smell,  or  even  the  sight  of  it,  in  his  own  house. 

Where  the  walls  were  not  hung  with  tapestry 
or  lined  with  looking-glass  there  were  pictures. 

If  there  was  one  thing  about  which  he  prided 
himself — even  more  than  his  plays  and  his  fiddles — 
it  was  his  pictures.  Here  is  a  list  of  the  most  re- 
markable in  his  collection : 

1.  "The  Graces,"  by  Etty  (a  masterpiece);  2. 
"  Roland  Graeme  and  Catherine  Seyton,"  by  John 
Faed  ;  3.  "Fire  in  a  Theatre  During  the  Pantomime  I" 
(a  clown  rushing  through  the  flames  with  a  child  in 
his  arms)  by  Laslett  Potts ;  4.  "  Rydal  Water,"  by 
Carrick  (this  picture  was  much  praised  by  Ruskin 
when  it  was  exhibited) ;  5.  "  The  Crusader's  Return," 
by  Pickersgill;  6.  "Andromeda,"  by  Etty;  7.  "A 
Madonna,"  by  Sant ;  8.  "  Portrait  of  the  Chevalier 
d'Eon,"  by  Reynolds.  (This  last  is  now  in  the  pos- 
session of  General  Meredith  Read,  of  New  York.) 

The  gentleman  who  does,  or  did,  the  "  Celebrities 
at  Home"  in  the  World  called  upon  Reade,  saw  all 
these  pictures  (except  "  The  Graces,"  which  was  then  \ 
at  Magdalen),  and  a  dozen  others  equally  valuable,  ) 
then  calmly  chronicled  his  host's  want  of  appreciation  \ 
for  painting  as  evidenced  by  the  absence  of  any  \ 
pictures  of  note  in  his  house. 

From  the  very  commencement  of  our  acquaintance 
"  The  Trinity  "  had  been  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 

Augustus    Braham,    whom  I    knew   slightly   (as 

227 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

indeed  I  knew  his  father  and  his  brothers  Hamilton 
and  Warde),  had  obtained  (so  I  understood)  a  snug 
Government  appointment — thanks  to  the  influence  of 
the  Countess — and  had  migi-ated  to  Portsmouth. 
Seymour  and  Curhng  had  moved  over  to  another 
world,  and  nothing  remained  to  remind  us  of 
their  existence  except  a  lawsuit  with  Curling's 
executors  to  recover  certain  moneys  advanced  to 
him  by  the  Duchess  or  "  Egeria  "  (as  I  had  taken  the 
liberty  to  christen  her),  a  term  of  endearment  which 
in  the  fulness  of  time  got  shortened  into  "  Geria." 

Money  and  time  and  temper  were  lost,  as  usual, 
over  these  proceedings,  and  whenever  Reade  re- 
turned from  a  consultation,  he  was  wont  to  let  off 
steam,  bitterly  inveighing  against  "the  law's  delay." 

'  Geria '  only  laughed  and  twitted  him  with  his 
indolence. 

'  Take  it  in  hand  yourself,'  quoth  she.  '  What's 
the  use  of  being  a  Doctor  of  Laws  if  you  can't  man- 
age a  little  '  tuppenny  ha'penny '  thing  like  that  ? ' 

Taking  her  at  her  word  he  '  went  in,'  and,  with  the 
aid  of  Sir  Henry  Mathews,  won  the  case,  and  returned 
triumphant  with  a  cheque  for  the  debt  and  costs.* 

'  Geria '  was  a  dear,  kind  creature  whose  goodness 
of  heart  was  only  equalled  by  her  generosity,  although 
both  were  held  firmly  under  control  by  her  native 
shrewdness.  Differing  in  many  respects,  both  she 
and  her  partner  agreed  upon  one  point — they  would 
fight  for  farthings  on  a  matter  of  right ;  au  con- 
traire,  they  would  give  away  pounds  when  appealed 
to  in  the  nobler  spirit. 

At  all  times  they  had  a  number  of  pensioners 
absolutely  supported  by  their  generosity. 

*  Writing  Mrs  Seymour,  Reade  makes  the  following  amazing 
statement : — 

*  In  this  case  I  had  to  dismiss  Jessel  (afterwards  Master  of 
the    Rolls)    for   incapacity   (sic) !    Ballantyne    for    colloquy    with 

defendant's  attorney  !  !  T '  (his  solicitor)  '  because  of  his  chief 

clerk's  incapacity  !  and  R 's  managing  clerk  !!!,.,  Sir  Henry 

Mathews,  then  an  able  junior,  won  this  case,  but  he  never  would 
have  done  so  had  it  not  been  for  my  resolute  determination  to 
kick  rogues  and  fools  out  of  the  case  one  after  the  other.' 

228 


LITERARY  ACHIEVEMENTS 

Their  hospitality  was  unbounded.  No  friend  ever 
needed  a  formal  invitation ;  there  was  always  a  knife 
and  fork  and  a  cordial  welcome  waiting  at  that  hos- 
pitable board. 

That  scandalous  scene  of  the  first  night  at  the 
Princess's  had  attracted  universal  attention,  and 
given  a  fillip  to  the  book  as  well  as  to  the  play, 
and  for  a  short  time  the  author  was  the  best  talked- 
of  and  best  abused  man  in  London. 

Following  Boucicault's  example,  instead  of  a 
certainty  Reade  took  a  percentage  of  the  receipts, 
with  the  result  (so  he  assured  me)  that  he  took  more 
money  during  the  fii'st  eighteen  nights  of  '  Never 
too  Late '  than  he  had  taken  for  his  dramatic  work 
during  the  preceding  eighteen  years  ! 

The  triumph,  so  long  delayed,  but  at  length 
achieved,  filled  him  with  a  fever  of  delight,  and 
contributed  greatly  to  the  intimacy  which  existed 
so  long  between  us.  For  many  years  he  always 
found  a  home  whenever  he  pleased  in  my  house, 
and  whenever  I  came  to  town  I  found  a  home 
in  his. 

Now,  so  please  you,  gentle  reader,  though  this 
naiTative  is  intended  to  be  almost  exclusively  con- 
fined to  the  dramatic  work  of  our  author,  for  the 
sake  of  coherence  let  us  take  a  brief  retrospect  of  his 
literary  achievements  during  the  period  which  elapsed 
between  the  publication  of  the  work  which  led  to 
our  acquaintance  and  its  subsequent  production  in 
dramatic  form  in  1865. 

He  has  himself  left  it  on  record,  that,  though 
an  omnivorous  reader  and  an  earnest  student,  it 
was  fifteen  years  before  he  ventured  to  put  pen 
to  paper  to  write  *  a  book.' 

This  can  scarcely  be  taken  literally,  for  though  he 
did  not  write  'a  book'  he  wrote  for  the  magazines 
much,  studied  more,  and  acquired  his  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  the  French  Theatre,  although  he 
frankly  admitted  that  (much  as  he  desired  to  do  so) 
he  never  could  emancipate  himself  entirely  from  the 

229 


RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

'  fetters '  of  that  which,  despite  his  admiration,  he 
usually  designated  '  our  cumbrous,  sprawling,  Anglo- 
Saxon  drama.' 

He  had  fondly  hoped  that  the  success  of  'Never 
too  Late'  would  have  opened  all  the  theatres  to 
him,  but,  to  the  end  of  his  life,  he  alleged  that  he 
was  perpetually  baffled  by  the  caprice  and  stupidity 
of  the  public  and  the  perversity  and  obtuseness  of 
the  managers.  Apropos  of  the  latter,  barely  twelve 
months  before  his  death  he  told  me  that  he  had 
made  an  appointment,  only  a  short  time  previous, 
to  read  a  play  in  a  certain  fashionable  theatre.  He 
was  kept  waiting  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  the 
manager  did  not  deign  to  put  in  an  appearance,  nor 
did  he  even  condescend  afterwards  to  explain  or 
apologise  for  this  impertinence.  Still  more  recently, 
Reade  wrote  to  the  management  of  another  fashion- 
able theatre,  offering  to  send  a  printed  copy  of  a 
new  comedy  for  approval,  and  he  never  even  received 
an  answer  to  his  proposal. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  '  Never  too  Late ' 
was  published  in  1856,  and  that,  although  the  play 
founded  upon  it  was  written  immediately  afterwards, 
no  one  would  look  at  it,  for  seven  long  years. 
He  did  not,  however,  remain  idle  all  this  time. 

From  1854  to  1856,  he  wrote  the  following 
magazine  articles  :  — '  Cloud  and  Sunshine,'  *  Jack 
of- all -Trades,'  *  The  Bloomer,'  etc.  In  1857 
'  White  Lies,'  firstly  in  dramatic  form,  adapted 
from  *  Le  Chateau  Grantier '  of  Macquet ;  secondly 
in  narrative  (published  serially  in  the  London 
Journal)  ;  thirdly,  recast  again  into  drama. 

As  already  stated  he  had  incurred  considerable 
expense  in  proving  his  rights  to  '  Les  Pauvres  de 
Paris.'  In  his  rage  at  being  not  only  robbed  but 
at  being  absolutely  defrauded  of  between  two  or 
three  hundred  pounds  in  costs  in  proving  them,  he 
rushed  into  print  with  a  furious  onslaught  on  the 
robbers  called  '  The  Eighth  Commandment.'  So 
vitriolic  was  it  that  he  could  get  no  publisher  to  be 
responsible   for   its   publication :    hence,    determined 

230 


INDUSTRY  AND  FECUNDITY 

not  to  be  baffled,  he  published  it  himself  at  his 
own  expense.  Then  came  another  difficulty,  an 
insurmountable  one.  Mudie's  refused  to  receive  it ; 
the  reviews  regarded  it  as  the  rabid  outbreak  of  a 
man  of  genius  during  a  temporary  aberration  of 
intellect.  Hence  it  fell  still-born,  and  is  now  re- 
garded as  a  mere  literary  curiosity. 

In  1858  he  wrote  'The  Course  of  True  Love 
never  did  run  Smooth ' ;  and  in  1859,  '  Love  me 
Little,  Love  me  Long' — each  in  one  volume. 

He  also  wrote  and  published  (at  his  own  expense) 
in  Paris  '  Le  Faubourg  de  St  Germain,'  described  on 
the  title-page  as  a  '  Piece  en  Deux  Actes.' 

Evidently  his  knowledge  of  the  French  language 
had  improved  since  his  first  visit  to  Paris  (see  ante), 
for  this  piece  appears  to  be  written  in  academic  and 
even  idiomatic  French,  but  it  sprawls  terribly,  the 
two  acts  occupying  no  less  than  sixty-three  quarto 
pages  I  After  the  archaic  fashion  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  drama  and  many  of  the  French  plays,  the 
entrance  of  each  character  is  denominated  as  a 
*  scene.'  The  curious  in  such  matters  may  note  in 
the  first  edition  of  Bulwer  Lytton's  comedy  of 
'  Money '  the  last  survival  of  this  absurd  tradition 
of  the  Antique  drama. 

The  whole  of  the  fu*st  act  of  '  Le  Faubourg ' 
takes  place  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Hotel  de 
Lauzac,  and  is  divided  into  fourteen  scenes.  In  the 
second  act  there  are  two  scenes,  otherwise  tableaux. 
Tableau  I.  is  an  ante-room,  divided  into  eight  scenes. 
Tableau  II.  is  the  boudoir  of  the  Duchess  de  Lauzac, 
divided  into  fourteen  scenes  more ! 

This  delectable  composition  was  sent  the  round 
of  the  Parisian  theatres,  but,  as  usual,  'no  one 
looked  at  it,'  or,  if  they  did,  the  author  never 
heard  of  it.  He  tried  to  induce  his  friend  Macquet 
to  collaborate  with  a  view  to  production  in  Paris,  but 
the  Frenchman  '  didn't  see  it,'  and  politely  declined. 

By  -  the  -  by  Reade  always  maintained  that  this 
gentleman  (a  man  of  distinguished  ability  and  the 
right  hand  of  the  renowTied  Alexandre  Dumas)  was 

231 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

a  Scotsman  in  disguise,  and  that  Macquet  was  a 
corruption  of  Mackay. 

The  industry  and  fecundity  of  our  author  at 
this  stage  of  his  career  is  simply  astounding,  for 
now  there  followed,  in  regular  and  rapid  succession, 
all  the  works  which  constitute  the  claim  of  Charles 
Reade  to  be  remembered  as  one  of  the  greatest 
writers  of  fiction  of  this  century.  In  this  prolific 
year  of  1859,  besides  the  foregoing,  he  commenced 
'A  Good  Fight'  in  Once  a  Week,  destined  by  a 
fortunate  lack  of  appreciation  on  the  part  of  the 
editor  to  ultimately  develop  into  '  The  Cloister  and 
the  Hearth,' 

In  November  of  this  same  year,  through  his  friend 
Pearson  (the  Rector  of  Knebworth),  Reade  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 

This  was  a  pleasure  long  desired  and  much 
enjoyed.  At  this  period,  in  abject  imitation  of  the 
execrable  example  of  Thackeray,  who,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  systematically  endeavoured  to 
belittle  his  illustrious  compeer  (see  the  crapulous 
'  Yellowplush  Papers ' ! ),  the  herd  of  pigmies  who 
"crawled  about  between  the  legs  of  both,  persist- 
ently followed  suit  in  depreciating  the  eminent 
abilities  they  could  neither  appreciate  nor  emulate, 
Reade,  however,  never  hesitated  to  express  his  pro- 
found belief  in  the  many-sided  genius  of  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton. 

I  supplement  this  memento  of  their  short  in- 
timacy by  quoting  the  following  letter  to  his 
mother,  who  was  also  a  profound  admirer  of 
Lytton's  works : — 

*  Knebworth, 
Wednesday,  November  1859. 

'  Dear  Mother,  —  I   dined    with     Sir    E.    Bulwer 
yesterday,  and  passed  a  pleasant,  instructive  evening. 
We    drew    from    him    a    review    of    the    great 
parliamentary  leaders  and  speakers  of  his  day,  and 
some  traditions  of  the  last  generation  of  speakers. 

232 


BULWER  LYTTON   AND   DICKENS 

He  depicted  their  characters,  intellectual  and 
moral,  very  finely  and  very  fairly.  He  insists  that 
Palmerston  and  his  contemporaries  are  vastly  inferior 
to  the  rising  men. 

It  may  interest  you  to  know  whom  he  calls  the 
five  great  orators  of  the  lower  House :  Gladstone, 
Bright,  Whiteside,  Cairns,  D'Israeli  (supereminent 
in  irony  and  personality  of  every  sort,  but  prolix, 
and  inferior  in  dealing  with  great  general  subjects). 
I  wish  you  could  have  heard  mine  host,  for  you 
take  more  interest  in  politics  than  I  do. — Yours 
affectionately,  Chari.es.' 

'  Charles '  had  always  a  fine  sense  of  humour,  and 
apparently  his  admiration  for  his  distinguished  friend 
did  not  blind  him  to  his  foibles,  for  in  a  communica- 
tion of  the  same  date  to  INIrs  Seymour  he  states : 

'  He  (L}i:ton)  is  comic  beyond  the  power  of 
pen  to  describe.  Goes  off  mentally  into  the  House 
of  Commons  and  harangues  by  the  yard,  with 
an  arm  stretched  out  straight  as  a  line.  Puts 
on  an  artificial  manner  —  yaw !  yaw !  yaw !  and 
every  moment  exposes  the  artifice  by  exploding  in 
a  laugh  which  is  nature  itself — loud,  sudden,  clear, 
fresh,  naive,  and  catching  as  a  ploughboy's. 

These  periodical  returns  to  nature  in  her  rudest 
form,  from  a  manner  which  is  the  height  of  trans- 
parent artifice,  are  funny  beyond  anything  the  stage 
has  hitherto  given  us.' 

The  visit  to  Knebworth  brought  Reade  in  contact 
with  a  yet  more  desirable  acquaintance,  as  the  follow- 
ing letter  shows : — 

'  My  dear  Dickens, — Herewith  let  me  present 
to  you  Mr  Charles  Reade,  whose  works  and  pen  are 
too  weU  known  to  you  to  need  lengthened  introduc- 
tion. He  would  like  to  talk  to  you  on  a  favourite 
subject  of  his  for  improving  the  interest  of  authors. 
— Yours  ever,  E.  B.  Lytton. 

'  Knebworth, 
November  25th,  1859.' 

233 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

This  introduction  led  to  a  prolonged  and  friendly 
intimacy  between  the  two  Charles's,  and  in  1861 
Charles  I.  commissioned  Charles  II.  to  write  '  Hard 
Cash,'  ensuring  him  £800  for  serial  rights  in 
HoiLsehold  Woi^ds. 

This  work  (absolutely  one  of  his  best) — assailing 
the  infainies,  the  cruelties,  and  the  horrors  of  the 
madhouse  system — strange  to  say,  proved  a  sad  dis- 
appointment both  to  the  author  and  the  editor,  who 
alleged  that  it  had  actually  diminished  the  circulation 
of  Household  Words,  to  the  extent  of  3000  copies 
weekly,  hence  the  story  had  to  be  brought  to  a  pre- 
mature conclusion  to  synchronise  with  the  end  of  a 
volume. 

This  brief,  but  I  fear  somewhat  imperfect,  record 
of  1856  to  1863  brings  us  up  to  the  time  when  I 
am  enabled  to  speak  from  personal  knowledge  of 
subsequent  events. 

Reade  had  now  acquired  both  fame  and  fortune. 
Yet,  amidst  his  continually  increasing  success  as 
a  novelist,  he  pei-petually  hungered  for  the  glamour 
of  the  footlights,  the  applause  of  the  audience :  and 
he  was  never  happy  out  of  the  theatre. 

One  of  his  especial  weaknesses  was  a  play  he  had 
founded  upon  Tennyson's  poem  of  '  Dora.'  I  re- 
member as  though  it  were  yesterday  that,  upwards 
of  thirty  years  ago,  he  (Reade)  took  Egeria,  Mr 
Howse  of  the  Nexv  York  Trihiinc,  and  myself  down 
to  Richmond,  to  dinner  at  the  Star  and  Garter, 
previous  to  which,  he  read  us  this  play,  and  very 
delighted  we  were.  As  we  drove  back  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  he  proposed  that  I  should  play 
Farmer  Allan,  the  'stern  parent.'  At  that  time 
1  had  got  the  poetic  drama  on  the  brain,  and  I 
replied,  with  more  candour  than  consideration,  that 
*  as  yet  I  had  not  arrived  at  the  '  King  Lears,'  and 
that  when  I  did  go  into  that  line  of  business,  I'd 
rather  go  to  the  original  than  to  an  agricultural 
specimen  of  the  article.'  He  growled  out  his 
favourite  platitude  about  '  the  insensate  egoism  of  the 
actor '  and  became  as  surly  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head. 

234 


THE   DAMNATION   OF   "DORA" 

By  the  way,  this  reading  recalls  an  incident  which 
occurred  during  one  of  his  visits  to  Leeds. 

Sir  James  Kitson,  the  great  ironmaster,  while 
showing  us  over  his  works,  related  the  story  of  a 
recent  strike  in  which  the  ringleader  justified  his 
conduct  by  continually  saying  to  Sir  James :  'I'm 
a  man,  not  a  mouse ! ' 

Reade  immediately  annexed  the  phrase.  In  scene 
I.  of  '  Dora '  Farmer  Allan  says :  '  After  all,  I  am  a 
man,  and  not  a  mouse.'  In  Act  II.  Dora  rings  the 
changes  on  the  phrase — e.g.  '  As  for  me,  I  am  not  a 
man,  you  know ;  I  am  a  mouse — a  poor  little  mouse 
that  lives  in  a  lion's  den  ! ' — and  later,  '  You  see,  sir, 
I  am  not  quite  a  mouse  ! ' 

When  I  ventured  to  remind  Reade  of  this  innocent 
plagiarism  he  retorted  savagely  : 

'  Yes  ;  I  did  '  collar '  it.  What  then  ?  If  you'll 
say  an)i:hing  as  smart  I'll  *  collar '  that  too  ! ' 

After  that  I  concluded  to  let  him  alone  for  the 
rest  of  the  journey. 

Apropos    of    '  Dora,'   it  has   apparently   escaped 
notice  that  the  phrase  '  the  grand  old  man '  (since   | 
confen'ed  by  the  voice  of  a  nation  on  an  old  man 
grander  still ! )  was  originally  applied  by  this  peerless 
maiden  to  Farmer  Allan.     {See  page  38  of  the  play.) 

After  lying  perdu  many  years  this  charming  work 
was  ultimately  produced  at  the  Adelphi,  1st  June 
1867.  Unfortunately,  it  did  not  attract,  which  the 
author  attributed  to  certain  shortcomings  in  the 
scenery.  Ten  years  later  he  wrote  a  pamphlet  in 
which  he  vivisected  the  unfortunate  painter  who,  he 
alleged,  had  damned  the  play.  Once  I  ventured  to 
plead  on  behalf  of  his  victim  that  he  was  dead. 

*  So  is  my  piece,  sir,  and  the  ruffian  killed  it — 
murdered  it ! — for  it  was  nothing  less  than  murder  ! — 
*  Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is. 
But  this  most  foul,  strange  and  unnatural ! ' 
I've  no  patience  to  think  of  it ! — the  flesh  and  blood,  and 
bones  and  brains  of  two  great  men — a  gi'eat  poet  and 
a  great  dramatist — murdered  by  a  wretched  dauber  ! ' 

'  But,'  I  replied,  '  he  was  not  a  wretched  dauber. 

235 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

On  the  contrary  he  was  a  very  admirable  painter.  He 
was  good  enough  for  Charles  Fechter  who  was 
himself  a  painter  and  a  sculptor ;  and  when  I  opened 
my  new  theatre  he  painted  all  the  scenery,  and  he 
didn't  kill  "  Hamlet."  ' 

'  Because  he  couldn't :  but  he  would  have  done  it 
if  he  could !  But  there !  there !  you  never  saw  the 
scene  :  you  never  saw  the  sun.  There  never  was  such 
a  sun  in  the  heavens,  or  on  the  earth,  or  in  the  waters 
under  the  earth  !  It  was  a  beastly  sun — a  sun  which 
went  to  bed  drunk,  and  got  up  groggy  in  the  morning 
looking  like  a  blazing  copper  warming-pan  ! ' 

But  there  !  there  I  read  this  and  spare  my  speech,' 
and  with  that,  he  thrust  the  pamphlet  into  my  hand. 

Since  George  Colman  the  Younger's  ferocious 
onslaught  on  John  Kemble  in  the  first  edition  of 
'  The  Iron  Chest,'  nothing  has  been  seen  which,  for 
ferocity,  can  compare  with  the  vivisection  of  this  poor 
painter.  I  reproduce  it  here  as  a  curiosity  on  the 
gentle  art  of  Vituperation. 

'  Dora '  was  rehearsed  about  ten  years  ago,  at  the 
Adelphi  Theatre,  under  promising  auspices.  There 
are  but  five  characters,  and  they  were  in  able  hands : 
Farmer  Allan,  Mr  H.  Neville ;  Luke  Blomfield, 
Mr  Billington ;  William  Allan,  Mr  Ashley ;  Dora, 
Miss    Kate   Terry ;    Mary  Morrison,    Miss  Hughes. 

These  artists  all  entered  into  their  parts :  the 
play  was  acted  at  rehearsal — as  all  plays  ought  to  be 
— and  so  we  knew  what  we  were  about ;  and  I  felt 
so  strong  in  my  actors  that  I  was  not  much  alarmed 
when  I  found  the  scene-painter  was  disorderly. 
Alas !  I  unden'ated  the  destructive  pov/ers  of  a 
drunkard  and  a  fool ! 

In  the  drama,  as  in  the  poem,  the  cornfield  plays 
a  principal  part,  not  only  because  a  field  of  ripe  wheat 
is  a  beautiful  sight  and  a  great  exploit  of  nature, 
but  because  it  is  on  the  old  farmer's  joy  and  pride 
in  his  crop  that  Dora  relies  to  soften  him  towards 
his  step-daughter  and  his  grandchild,  and  to  make 
her  own  experiment  on  his  feelings  less  hazardous. 

236 


"IRA   FUROR   BREVIS   EST  I" 

I  begged  more  than  once  to  see  this  cornfield, 
but  I  never  could  get  a  sight  of  it  on  the  stage  nor 
even  on  the  frame ;  and,  unfortunately,  my  friend 
Mr  Webster  was  out  of  town,  and  ill,  or  he  Avould 
have  kept  the  play  back  until  he  had  seen  it. 

The  drama  was  produced  and  played  to  perfec- 
tion. Neville  put  off  his  youth,  and  was  the  lion- 
hearted  old  farmer  with  a  bosom  that  could  suffer 
but  a  will  that  could  not  bend.  Kate  Terry,  as 
Dora,  gave  the  world  such  a  picture  of  womanly 
sweetness,  timidity,  and  goodness,  as  none  who  saw 
it  can  forget ;  INIr  Ashley,  though  out  of  his  line, 
was  far  too  intelligent  to  fall  short ;  Miss  Hughes, 
in  her  small  part,  was  perfect,  and  spoke  the  poet's 
own  lines  to  music  exquisitely ;  and  Mr  Billington 
excelled  himself.  He  played  the  young  farmer — 
tender,  but  broad  and  manly — to  the  life,  and,  thanks 
to  him,  my  creation  melted  into  the  poet's,  and  no 
spectator  could  tell  them  apart.  I  owe  this  tribute  to 
my  good  cousins  in  the  great  and  beautiful  dramatic 
art,  '  'Tis  a  debt  of  honour,  and  must  be  paid.' 

The  first  act  is  in  the  farmer's  kitchen.  The 
kitchen  was  tolerably  painted,  the  lines  were  played 
to  perfection,  and  the  act  went  like  a  charm. 

The  next  act  passes  in  green  pastures,  with  the 
immortal  Brook  running  through  them.  By  the  side 
of  that  brook  Dora  sings  to  William,  who  is  now  a 
dying  man,  Tennyson's  immortal  song,  '  The  Brook.' 

Well,  the  Adelphi  stream  was  composed  of  a 
large  wheel,  hung  with  some  pieces  of  fleecy  hosiery 
and  spangles.  By  the  side  of  this  fine  old  theatrical 
substitute  for  water,  Kate  Terry  sang  'The  Brook,' 
as  only  actresses  can  sing,  and  her  genius  prevailed 
over  the  cotton  and  spangles,  though  a  ridiculous 
libel  upon  one  of  the  lovehest  things  in  nature — 
beautiful  in  shade,  beautiful  in  sunlight,  beautiful 
even  in  the  gaslight  or  limelight  of  a  theatre. 

That  act  passed  off  well  enough. 

The  act-drop  rose  on  the  third  act — the  cornfield. 
We  ail  know  how  the  poet  has  painted  it ;  and  his 
picture  was  in  the  scene-painter's  hands  as  a  guide ; 

237 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

but  that  gentleman  preferred  his  own  ideas  of  corn. 
He  gave  us  the  flowery  mound  and  two  wheat 
sheaves,  but  his  stage-cloth  represented  a  turnpike 
road,  with  three  rows  of  cut  stubble  (property),  and 
his  cornfield  was  a  shapeless  mass  streaked  with 
fiery  red  and  yellow  ochre.  A  cornfield !  We  might 
just  as  well  have  called  it  the  Red  Sea,  or  a  Roman 
arena  splashed  with  the  gore  of  lions  and  gladiators. 
Indeed,  we  might  have  called  it  anything,  for  it  repre- 
sented nothing.  It  was  what  it  was,  a  horizon-cloth 
primed  with  blood  and  ochre  and  drunken  impudence. 

The  public  stared  with  wonder  at  the  unearthly 
phenomenon — wonder,  but  no  displeasure.  There  was 
as  yet  no  distinct  ground  for  offence,  since  not  a  soul 
in  front,  except  the  poor  author,  could  possibly  divine 
what  the  monstrous  thing  was  intended  to  libel. 

But  this  apathy  ceased  when  Farmer  Allan  came 
on  and  interpreted  the  daub. 

'  Dora,  my  girl,  come  to  have  a  look  at  the 
wheat  ? ' 

Once  informed  that  the  splashes  of  blood  and 
ochre  on  that  cloth  were  wheat,  every  cockney  who 
had  voyaged  into  the  bowels  of  the  land  as  far  as 
Richmond  began  to  snigger. 

But  when  the  old  farmer  persisted  in  an  illusion 
he  had  all  to  himself  the  merriment  swelled ;  and 
Farmer  Allan's  lines,  which  you  will  find  to  be 
continuous  in  the  book,  were  broken  into  dialogue 
on  that  occasion.     ('  Dora,'  p.  39.) 

'A IX AN  [turning  round  and  eyeing  the  standing 
wheat).  'Tis  a  fine  sight,  isn't  it? 

The  Stalls  (with  admirable  p?'07}iptitude).  He ! 
he !  he ! 

The  Pit  {with  a  so7i  of  after-clap).  Haw  !  haw  ! 

Ai-LAN.  I  haven't  had  as  full  a  crop  this  six  years. 

Pit  and  Stalls  (together).  Ha  I  ha  I  ha !  ha  I 
ha !  ha ! 

Allan.  Six  quarters  to  the  acre,  if  there's  a  bushel. 

Pit,  Gallery,  and  Stalls.  He !  he  I  ha  I  ha ! 
haw  I  haw  !  ho  !  ho  ! 

238 


VIVISECTION   OF   A   SCENE-PAINTER 

Allan.  Opens  a  farmer's  heart  it  does  to  stand 
and  look  at  a  sixty-acre  field  of  wheat  hke  that. 
(Howls  of  laughter  from  floor  to  gallery.) ' 

Now,  a  play  may  be  laughed  at  in  one  place  and 
admired  in  many,  provided  the  cause  of  ridicule 
passes  away ;  and  it  does  pass  away,  when  the  one 
mistake  is  due  to  the  author  or  to  an  actor.  In  such 
cases  there  is  no  more  permanent  harm  done  than 
when  the  periodical  cat,  after  watching  for  a 
sentimental  scene  (as  patiently  as  cats  unconnected 
with  the  fine  aits  do  for  a  mouse)  traverses  the  stage 
behind  the  performers  and  excites  incongruous 
guffaws :  her  exit  composes  the  powerful  minds 
her  entrance  had  overthrown. 

But,  when  the  scene-painter  is  the  criminal  —  a 
thing  that  I  believe  has  never  happened  to  any 
author  in  the  memory  of  man  but  unfortunate  me, 
and  when  the  cause  of  ridicule  is  a  set  scene,  which 
lasts  the  whole  third  act,  the  play  is  murdered,  and 
the  author  and  his  actors  assassinated ! 

The  last  act  of  '  Dora '  all  but  failed :  yet  it  is 
the  great  act ;  it  is  the  Tennysonian  act ;  it  was 
grandly  played,  and  even  my  share  in  it  is  the  best 
thing  I  ever  wrote  in  my  life.  But  that  drunkard's 
work  stuck  there  all  the  time ;  insulting  sense,  and 
tickling  the  audience  out  of  tune  with  the  strong 
and  tender  and  beautiful  things  that  were  done 
before  them  under  the  withering  shadow  of  burlesque. 
The  very  critics  (so  few  even  of  them  can  decipher 
the  errors  of  the  theatre  and  see  where  each  fault 
really  lies)  went  away  honestly  thinking  that  the 
third  act  oF  '  Dora '  was  worse  wjitten  than  its  pre- 
decessors. 'J'hat  I  shall  put  to  the  test  by  submitting 
the  book  to  their  successors. 

Mr  Webster  thought  otherwise,  and  discharged 
the  pictorial  assassin.  But  punishment  is  no  cure : 
sacking  the  Colorado  beetle,  when  he  has  vented  his 
eggs,  will  not  save  the  potato-field. 

When  the  organs  of  opinion  had  all  confounded 
the    bibulous    idiot   with    his   writhing    victim,   the 

239 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

author,  and  had  denounced  Reade,  and  lauded  Tenny- 
son, and  run  down  the  great  Tennysonian  act  of  the 
play,  and  eulogised  the  first  act,  which  happens  to 
be  all  Reade,  then  our  Aceldama — or  field  of  blood 
and  ochre — was  mitigated ;  but  to  the  last  it  never 
resembled  a  cornfield,  and,  therefore,  never  aided  the 
lines,  as  it  ought  to  do,  by  a  beautiful  and  appro- 
priate picture  of  that  glorious  sight — a  large  field  of 
standing  wheat. 

The  play  was  played  forty  nights,  and  then  dis- 
missed. It  is  remembered  with  respect  by  every 
actor,  but  quite  forgotten  by  the  London  public. 
It  crossed  the  water,  and  was  played  at  Boston, 
Massachusetts,  but  ruthlessly  shorn  of  our  leading 
feature,  pictorial  inebriety.  They  played  it  fifty 
successive  nights  and  thirty  afternoons  to  crowded 
houses — being  the  greatest  success  (so  I  am  told) 
any  theatre  in  Boston  had  achieved  since  the  city 
was  built.  I  know  their  cast :  it  was  a  respectable 
one ;  but  not  on  a  par  with  ours  at  the  Adelphi. 
Their  superiority  lay  in  their  scene-painter  and  their 
audience ;  ours  in  our  actors.  Yet  they  succeeded 
prodigiously  :  we  all  but  failed. 

Confirmed  in  my  belief  on  the  subject  by  the 
histoiy  of  my  drama  in  London  and  Boston,  I  now 
propose,  after  suffering  unjustly  ten  mortal  years 
for  the  fault  of  another  man,  to  appeal  to  a  new 
tribunal.  I  beg  leave  to  gauge  the  intellects  of  a 
new  audience,  and  to  have  fair  play  on  the  stage  as 
other  authors  do. 

Boston  audiences  are,  no  doubt,  somewhat  ahead 
of  London  audiences  in  culture  and  sense  of  the 
beautiful ;  but  it  does  not  follow  they  are  more 
than  ten  years  ahead.  I  hope  to  find  in  London, 
A.D.  1877,  an  audience  as  intelligent  as  Boston 
audiences  were  in  1867,  and  to  give  the  London 
audience  as  fair  a  chance  of  judging  me  fairly  as 
the  Boston  audience  had. 

With  this  view  I  have  been  to  my  good  friend 
Mr  W.  Hann,  and  got  the  scenery  painted  my  way 
this  time.     Mr  Hann  has  every  quality  of  an  artist 

240 


OBDURATE   MANAGERS 

(except  inebriety) ;  and  it  has  been  a  labour  of  love 
Avith  him  to  design  appropriate  pictures  worthy  of 
Tennyson's  '  Dora '  and  paint  them  with  his  own 
hand. 

These  pictures  would,  1  think,  please  the  poet 
himself.  They  are  suggested  by  his  lines,  not  mine ; 
and  I  now  offer  them,  with  Mrs  Tom  Taylor's 
music,  and  my  drama,  to  the  London  managers  on 
this  side  of  the  Thames  and  Temple  Bar.  The 
music  is  a  series  of  melodies,  strictly  appropriate  to 
the  sentiment  of  each  scene,  and  includes  that  lady's 
exquisite  song,  'The  Brook.' 

I  hope  my  friends,  the  London  managers,  will 
excuse  my  approaching  them  for  once,  in  this  novel 
method.  The  case  is  exceptional.  There  is  no  other 
instance  on  record  of  such  a  drama  as  '  Dora,'  with 
two  such  names  to  it,  being  shelved  indefinitely,  be- 
cause an  obscure  scene-painter  drank,  daubed,  and 
died  ten  years  ago. 

I  hope,  too,  that  the  critics  of  the  day  will  not 
take  it  an  ill  compliment  if  I  respectfully  ask  them 
to  look  at  the  book  of  '  Dora,'  and  decide  between 
their  predecessors  and  me  whether  the  play  really 
declines  in  merit  after  the  first  act,  and  whether  I 
am  unreasonable,  or  premature,  in  asking  for  another 
trial  with  my  own  scenery. 

Despite  the  new  scenery  and  this  piteous  appeal 
for  redress,  the  managers  remained  obdurate,  and 
the  unfortunate  play  was  relegated  to  the  shelf, 
scenery  and  all,  till  some  four  or  five  years 
later. 

Soon  after  the  withdrawal  of  '  Dora '  from 
the  Adelphi  the  author  wrote  another  play  called 
'  The  Double  Marriage,'  founded  upon  Macquet's 
drama  of  '  Le  Chateau  Grantier.'  This  adaptation 
had  been  previously  sent  on  approval  to  various 
managers,  who,  as  usual,  'didn't  look  at  it.' 

Thereupon  he  made  a  novel  of  it  (see  ante), 
called  '  White  Lies,'  which  was  published  serially 
in  the  London  Journal.  In  doing  so  he  had  so 
Q  241 


RANDOM    RECOLLECTIONS 

strengthened  the  story  that  he  was  induced  to  put 
it  back  into  dramatic  form,  and  made  a  new  play 
of  it,  which  he  sent  to  me  for  production. 

Finding  that  I  was  struck  with  it  he  said :  'I'm 
glad  you  like  it,  because,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Vining 
doesn't  care  for  it,  and  the  failure  of  '  Dora '  has 
shut  me  up  at  the  Adelphi,  so  I'm  barred  out  as 
usual.  The  part  would  suit  you  down  to  the  ground. 
Will  you  do  it  ? ' 

'  No !  Without  the  London  hall-mark  'twould 
be  useless  in  the  country.' 

'  But  we  did  without  it  in  "  Never  too  Late." ' 

'Ah,  that  was  a  big,  popular  subject.  Besides, 
I  was  prepared  to  lose  money  on  that,  and  did,  to 
start  it,  but  I'm  in  the  mortar  tub  now'  (I  was 
building  my  new  theatre  at  Leeds),  '  and  have  no 
money  to  throw  away.' 

'  Then  I'm  done,  for  there's  no  chance  of  placing 
it  in  town.' 

'  Why  don't  you  try  the  new  theatre  ? ' 

'  What  new  theatre  ? ' 

'  You  remember  St  Martin's  Hall  ?  Well,  yester- 
day I  met  Phipps,  the  architect,  in  Long  Acre.  He 
took  me  in,  and  showed  me  all  over  the  place. 
He's  transmogrifying  it  into  a  theatre  for  Lionel 
Lawson  of  the  JDailij  Telegi^aph.  Labouchere  has 
taken  it.     I  presume  you  know  him  ? ' 

'  I  only  know  that  Charles  Lever  told  me  that 
he  was  the  eccentric  attache  who  was  the  hero  of 
'A  Day's  Ride:  A  Life's  Romance." 

'  Precisely  I  Well,  he's  taken  the  place  for  a 
term  of  years.' 

'  Oh,  indeed  1     Qui  Bella  la  donna  ? ' 

'  There  isn't  one  yet.  He's  got  an  idea  about 
Art.' 

'  The  deuce  he  has  !  Who'd  have  suspected 
that  '  Labby  '  had  an  idea  about  anything  ? ' 

'  He  has  ideas  about  many  things,  as  you'll  see 
by-and-by ;  meanwhile,  his  present  notion  is  to  run 
his  Theatre  on  a  new  plan ! ' 

'  Indeed  !     How  does  he  mean  to  set  about  it  ? ' 

242 


OPENING  OF  NEW  QUEEN'S  THEATRE 

'To  begin  with,  he's  engaged  Alfred  Wigan  to 
manage  for  him.     You  know  him,  of  course  ? ' 

'  SHghtly.' 

*  Well,  try  him  ! ' 

'And  get  'Dora,'  and  that  d — d  scene-painter 
flung  in  my  teeth  ? ' 

'Never  mind  that!  Tell  Alfred  the  Great  that 
Romeo  has  never  been  acted,  and  that  you've  written 
a  mature  Romeo  expressly  for  him  ! ' 

'Expressly  for  my  grandfather!  A  Romeo  of 
fifty?' 

'True,  O  king — but,  remember,  he's  a  Blighted 
Tragedian  dying  to  distinguish  himself  for  half-a- 
century.' 

'  Psha  !     Romeo  with  a  bald  head.' 

'What  does  that  signify?  He  can  wear  a 
wig ' 

'  So  he  can  !     Besides,  he's  not  half  a  bad  actor.' 

'  Bad  actor  !  He's  a  deuced  good  one  ;  and  since 
John  IMildmay :  they'll  stand  him  in  anything.' 

'  So  they  will !  To  be  sure  he  has  a  special  gift 
for  making  poetry  prose — but  good  prose  (and  his 
prose  is  good)  is  better  than  bad  poetry  any  day 
in  the  week.*     I'll  try  him  to-morrow.' 

He  did  try  him  the  very  next  day,  and  Wigan 
accepted  the  piece  for  his  opening  night.  Here, 
indeed,  appeared  a  magnificent  opportunity.  A  new, 
elegant,  and  commodious  theatre  in  an  eligible  situa- 
tion and  a  fashionable  management  with  abundant 
capital  at  its  back.  Never  w^as  there  a  better  chance 
for  author  to  distinguish  himself.  The  play,  too, 
is  'an  excellent  play,  well  digested  in  the  scenes, 
set  down  with  as  much  modesty  as  cunning.' 
Magnificent    scenery,    costumes    and    appointments 

*  I  note  in  to-day's  journals  that  the  one  and  only  Ibsen  has 
issued  an  Imperial  ukase  inhibiting  the  use  of  verse  on  the  stage, 
decreeing  that  in  future  prose  must  be  the  only  medium. 

Methinks  I  can  hear  the  free-and-easy  young  gentlemen, 
to  whom  this  archaic  accomplishment  is  absolute  Assyrian,  jubi- 
lantly chortling  :  "  Good  old  Ibsen  !  Right  you  are,  old  chappie  !  " 
—29th  April  1903. 

243 


RANDOINI   RECOLLECTIONS 

and  a  powerful,  indeed  an  admirable  company,  were 
provided,  including,  besides  Mr  and  Mrs  Wigan, 
Miss  Ellen  Terry,  Miss  P'anny  Addison,  Charles 
Wyndham,  Lionel  Brough,  and  other  distinguished 
artists.  A  few  breezes  had  occurred  at  rehearsal, 
but  they  were  mere  summer  storms  and  had  been 
smoothed  over.  All  was  in  good  order :  the  author 
was  sanguine,  the  actors  hopeful,  the  management 
confident  of  success.  An  eager  and  excited 
multitude  crammed  the  theatre  from  floor  to  dome 
on  the  opening  night,  24th  October  1867. 

The  play  began  well ;  the  audience  were  pleased. 
As  act  succeeded  act  they  became  more  and  more 
interested.  At  last  came  the  great  situation  of  the 
fourth  act,  which,  it  was  confidently  anticipated, 
would  take  the  house  by  storm.  And  it  did — but 
not  in  the  way  the  author  intended. 

Josephine,  the  heroine  of  '  The  Double  INIarriage,' 
has  given  birth  to  a  child  under  circumstances  which, 
though  ultimately  explained  satisfactorily,  appear  at 
the  moment  most  compromising.  The  child  is  dis- 
covered ;  the  unfortunate  mother's  honour,  happiness, 
her  very  life  are  at  stake.  In  this  supreme  moment 
her  sister,  a  single  young  girl,  the  incarnation  of 
truth,  purity,  and  innocence,  comes  forward  in  the 
presence  of  her  affianced  husband  and  her  mother, 
the  haughty  Comptesse  Grandpre,  and,  to  save  Jose- 
phine from  shame,  brands  herself  with  infamy.  Taking 
the  child  in  her  arms  she  declares  it  is  her  own ! 

I  can  conceive  no  dramatic  situation  in  existence 
stronger  than  this.  To  the  w^ell-gi'ounded  skill  of 
Miss  Ellen  Terry  was  entrusted  this  striking 
incident.  This  distinguished  actress  had  retired  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  from  public  life.  Her  dis- 
appearance was  shrouded  in  mystery  ;  hence,  when 
she  emerged  from  retirement,  her  first  appearance 
was  looked  forward  to  with  eager  and  unwonted 
interest.  She  was  fully  equal  to  the  occasion ;  her 
form  dilated,  her  eyes  sparkled  with  fire,  her  voice 
trembled  as  she  exclaimed  in  tones  of  passionate 
emotion  :   '  /  am  its  mother  ! ' 

244 


FAILURE  OF  "THE  DOUBLE  MARRIAGE" 

At  this  moment,  Reade  told  me  that  there  burst 
forth  a  roar  of  derision  which  shook  the  building, 
and  a  howl  of  savage  laughter  arose  which  he  should 
never  forget  if  he  lived  to  the  age  of  Old  Parr. 
The  curtain  fell  amidst  yells,  and  the  piece  was 
doomed  there  and  then.  Indeed,  it  was  only  kept 
in  the  bill  until  something  could  be  prepared  to  take 
its  place. 

Although  the  presence  of  that  unfortimate  baby 
was  fatal  to  '  The  Double  JVIarriage,'  at  or  about 
that  very  time  another  theatre  was  being  crowded 
nightly  with  audiences,  which  not  only  tolerated  the 
wonderful  D'Alroy  baby  in  the  last  act  of  '  Caste,' 
but  *  gushed '  at  it.  The  critics  who  saw  genius  in 
the  one  piece,  could  detect  nothing  but  the  quint- 
essence of  absurdity  in  the  other.  The  adage  that 
one  man  may  steal  a  horse  and  ride  off  on  its  back 
in  triumph,  while,  if  the  other  looks  over  the  hedge, 
he  is  dragged  off  to  durance  vile,  was  never  more 
appositely  illustrated  than  on  this  occasion. 

Decidedly  '  The  British  public  is  a  fine,  practical, 
consistent  animal.' 

'Never  too  Late 'had  proved  an  *Open  Sesame,' 
and  the  author  was  riding  triumphant  on  the  tide, 
which  '  taken  at  the  flood  leads  to  fortune,'  when  lo  ! 
the  luckless  '  Dora '  cast  him  among  the  breakers, 
and  the  still  more  luckless  'Double  Marriage' 
landed  him  high  and  dry  on  the  beach ! 

Failure  upon  failure ! — two  of  them  within  six 
months  of  each  other. 

At  the  very  moment  when  he  felt  assured  that 
he  had  got  firm  hold  of  the  dramatic  public,  hey 
presto !  the  phantom  vanished,  and  the  unfortunate 
author  had  to  begin  all  over  again. 


245 


CHAPTER  II 

LIFE  AT  ALBERT  GATE 

Tempest  in  a  Teacup — Defence  of  Plagiarism — Reade's  systematic 
Mode  of  Work — Scrap  Books — Note  Books — Guard  Books 
and  Agendas  —  Pictures  and  Paragraphs  —  Letters  from 
Celebrities  —  His  "Copy"  and  his  Copyist  —  Auto -Criticism 
on  "Christie  Johnstone" — Falls  foul  of  the  anonymous  Author 
of  "Poets  and  Players"  in  Frasers — Macready's  "Macbeth" 
— Ingenious  and  highly  probable  Theory  of  Stage  Traditions 
— Plea  for  a  National  State  -  aided  Theatre  —  Work  done, 
Reception  follows — Visitors,  Suitors,  and  Parasites  dismissed 
—  To  Town  and  back  loaded  with  Fruit  and  Flowers  — 
Table-Talk — Statesmen — Authors — Poets —  Painters,  Players, 
Parsons,  etc. — A  quiet  Game  at  Whist — Defeated  by  Psycho 
— Pleasant  Dinners — Edwin  James  Q,C. —  Phelps  and  Fechter 
— Charles  Mathews  and  Dion  Boucicault — El  hoc  geims  omnes 

The  failure  of  '  Dora '  and  '  The  Double  Marriage ' 
embittered  the  author's  life,  and  the  stings  of  the 
gadflies  of  the  Press  goaded  him  to  such  absolute 
fury  that  in  the  exuberance  of  his  boyish  anger  he 
became  so  amusing  that  I  couldn't  refrain  from 
laughing  at  him ;  then  the  tigerish  roar  of  anger 
would  change  to  a  leonine  roar  of  laughter. 

One  of  these  gentlemen,  having  traced  the  origin 
of  the  play  to  Macquet,  accused  Reade  of  being  a 
plagiarist. 

'Plagiarist,'  he  roared,  crushing  the  paper  in 
his  fist  and  striding  up  and  down.  '  Of  course  I 
am  a  plagiarist,  Chaucer  was  a  plagiarist,  Shakespeare 
was  a  plagiarist,  Moliere  was  a  plagiarist.  We  all 
plagiarise,  all  except  those  d — d  idiots  who  are  too 
asinine  to  profit  by  learning  from  the  works  of  their 
superiors  I 

246 


DEFENCE   OF   PLAGIARISM 

Surely  to  God  every  blockhead  out  of  a  lunatic 
asylum  (except  these  idiots)  must  know,  that,  since 
Homer's  time,  all  authors  have  parodied  his  incidents 
and  paraphrased  his  sentiments.  Mohere  'took  his 
own  where  he  found  it.'  *The  thief  of  all  thieves 
was  the  Warwickshire  thief,'  who  stole  right  and  left 
from  everybody ;  but  then  he  '  found  things  lead  and 
left  them  gold.'     That's  the  sort  of  thief  I  am  ! 

You  may  laugh !  No  one  feels  the  tight  boot 
but  the  fellow  who  wears  it  (that's  why  /  stick 
to  cloth  ones !) ;  but  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  I  am  sick 
of  the  insolence,  the  ignorance,  and  the  intolerable 
stupidity  of  the  great  unwashed,  who  arrogate  to 
themselves  the  right  to  form  and  guide  public 
opinion.  IMy  disadvantage  among  these  boobies  is 
because  I  wear  clean  linen  (to  which  they  have  a 
constitutional  abhorrence),  write  the  English  language 
(which  they  don't  understand),  and  because  I  belong 
to  the  '  not  inconsiderable  class  of  men  who  have  not 
the  advantage  of  being  dead ' !  While  Byron  and 
Scott  and  Keats  and  Shelley  were  alive  the  pre- 
cursors of  these  vermin  stung  and  irritated  them. 
Living,  they  were  very  small  potatoes  ;  dead,  they  are 
giants.  There's  one  comfort,  when  I  'move  over' 
I  shall  take  my  proper  place,  and  leave  these  sweeps 
to  the  congenial  occupation  of  making  mud  pies 
wherewith  to  bespatter  the  coming  race  of  authors. 

Oh,  laugh,  laugh  away  and  be  hanged  to  you ; 
you  make  me  laugh  too,  in  spite  of  myself,  you 
young  beggar. 

Away  you  go,  hail  a  cab  for  the  boat-race. 
A  four-wheeler  mind  and  a  good  horse,  or  we  shall 
miss  the  start." 

We  didn't  miss  it.  We  got  aboard  the  umpire's 
boat,  and  Leo  wrote  a  splendid  account  of  it  (he 
was  a  great  authority  on  the  subject)  for  the  Pall 
Mali,  and  by  the  time  we  got  back  to  dinner  he 
had  forgotten  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  criticaster 
(a  word  of  his  coining)  in  the  world. 

Apropos  of  plagiarism,  I  disgress  for  a  moment 
to  mention  that  quite  recently  I  have  discovered  a 

247 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

remarkable  coincidence  between  a  story  of  his 
entitled  '  The  Picture,'  and  another  story,  called 
'  What  the  Papers  Revealed,'  by  an  anonymous 
writer,  in  the  twentieth  volume  of  St  James' 
Magazine,  page  8.  Both  tales  are  distinctly  derived 
from  the  same  French  source :  in  fact,  Reade  made 
his  a  tale  of  the  Terror ;  the  other  adapter  has  laid 
his  donnee  in  England ;  but  it  is  to  be  observed 
neither  one  writer  nor  the  other  alluded  directly  or 
indirectly  to  the  original  source  of  his  inspiration  1 

There  is  also  in  an  early  volume  of  Household 
Words  a  story  from  which  '  Single  Heart  and 
Double  Face'  appears  to  be  derived. 

Yet  Mr  Charles  L.  Reade  positively  assures  me 
that  the  story  of  '  The  Picture '  was  founded  upon 
an  incident  which  Bulwer  related  to  Reade  over 
the  dinner-table  at  Knebworth ;  that  this  play  of 
'  Single  Heart '  (never  acted  I)  was  founded  upon 
a  single  anecdote  which  he  himself  translated  from  the 
German  for  his  father's  use  !     Q.E.L. 

During  my  frequent  \asits  to  Albert  Gate  I  had 
ample  opportunities  for  observing  Reade's  systematic 
mode  of  going  to  work.  He  scoffed  at  the  idea  of 
burning  "the  midnight  oil."  IVIaintaining  that  a 
man  of  letters  had  no  right  to  lead  the  life  of  a 
recluse,  he  worked  in  the  early  part  of  the  day, 
the  rest  he  devoted  to  society.  Literature  was  the 
business  of  his  life,  society  its  relaxation. 

He  got  up  at  eight,  skimmed  the  papers,  and 
breakfasted  at  nine.  He  had  a  healthy,  almost  a 
voracious  appetite,  and  usually  made  a  substantial 
meal  which  set  him  up  for  the  day.  Fish,  flesh, 
eggs,  potatoes,  fruit — nothing  came  amiss  to  him. 
From  breakfast-time  he  never  tasted  anything  till 
dinner,  at  seven,  or,  when  he  went  to  the  theatre, 
at  six.  From  ten  till  one  or  two  he  stuck  to  the 
desk.  One  chapter  of  twelve  pages  (double  the 
size  of  foolscap)  he  considered  a  fair  average  day's 
work.  I  have  often  sat  with  him  for  hours  together, 
he  writing — I  reading,  or  perhaps  studying  some  new 
part,  without  our  exchanging  one  word.     Sometimes, 

248 


AGENDAS   AND   SCRAP-BOOKS 

indeed,  he  would  jump  up,  and  say,  '  my  muse 
'labours,'  but  the  jade  won't  be  'delivered.'  Come 
into  the  garden,  John,  and  let's  have  a  jaw.'  After 
a  few  minutes'  talk  he  would  return  to  his  work 
with  redoubled  ardour. 

One  day  every  week  was  devoted  to  his  agendas 
and  scrap-books.  Magazines  and  papers  of  every 
description,  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  were  piled 
round  him  in  shoals.  Armed  with  a  long  pair  of 
scissors,  sharp  and  glittering  as  a  razor,  he  would 
glance  over  a  whole  sheet,  spot  out  a  salient  article 
or  paragraph  —  a  picturesque  illustration  from 
Harpers  or  Frank  Leslie's  Pictorial,  the  Grajjhic, 
Illustrated  London  News,  the  London  Journal, 
down  to  the  Police  News — snip  went  the  scissors, 
slash  went  the  article  as  it  dropped  into  the  paper 
basket.  During  these  operations  he  would  some- 
times pause  to  let  out  an  exclamation  of  astonish- 
ment, or  disgust,  or  a  Gargantuan  roar  of  laughter, 
or  occasionally  he  would  read  a  more  than  usually 
interesting  paragi-aph  aloud,  and  comment  on  it. 
When  the  slashing  was  completed,  and  the  room 
was  littered  over  in  every  corner,  the  maid  was 
called  in  to  clear  away  the  debris — then  came  the 
revision.  Paragraphs  and  illustrations  were  sifted, 
selected,  approved,  or  rejected.  Those  that  were 
approved  were  there  and  then  pasted  into  scrap- 
books  and  duly  indexed ;  long  articles  were  stowed 
away  into  one  or  other  of  his  agendas  so  methodically 
that  he  knew  where  to  lay  his  hand  upon  them 
at  a  moment's  notice.  It  was  by  this  process 
that  he  prepared  those  wonderful  store -houses  of 
information  which  Sir  Edwin  Arnold  describes  thus  : 
'  The  enormous  note-books  which  he  compiled  in 
the  course  of  his  various  publications,  with  then- 
elaborate  system  of  reference  and  confirmation  and 
their  almost  encyclopaedic  variety  and  range,  will 
rank  hereafter  among  the  greatest  curiosities  of 
literature,  and  be  a  perennial  monument  of  his 
artistic  fidelity.' 

To  complete  his  record,  and  have  the  means  of 

249 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

referring  at  any  moment  to  a  dependable  authority 
for  verification  of  dates,  etc.,  he  always  filed  Lloyd's 
Weekly  News,  which  he  called  his  "  epitome  of 
current  events." 

I  well  remember  with  what  pride  his  elder 
brother  '  Bill  the  Squire '  turned  up  one  day  with 
a  volume  of  Lloyd's,  which  he  had  carefully  indexed 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last. 

Amongst  other  features  of  his  workshop  there 
used  to  be  a  couple  of  volumes  full  of  remarkable 
letters  from  remarkable  people. 

A  note  from  George  H.  Lewes  states :  '  An 
article  by  you  that  w^ouldn't  be  worth  printing 
would  be  a  curiosity  in  its  way ;  it  must  be  so 
infernally  wrong.  Are  we  never  to  see  you  on 
Sunday  between  five  and  six  ?  We  are  always  in, 
and  generally  get  some  good  talkers  to  come.' 

The  other  letters  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  quote, 
but  the  endorsements  are  so  quaint  that,  by  his 
permission,  I  made  notes  of  some  of  them,  and  quote 
a  few. 

One  from  Wilkie  Collins  is  endorsed :  '  An  artist 
of  the  pen ;  there  are  terribly  few  amongst  us.' 

Martin  Tupper :  '  A  man  unreasonably  pitched 
into ;  he  is  not  the  only  man  who  has  made  an 
easy  hit  with  a  single  book.  Examples :  '  Dame 
Europa's  School,'  '  Tom  Brown's  School-Days,'  '  Rab 
and  his  Friends,'  '  Self-Help,'  '  Jane  Eyi-e.'  None 
of  these  writers  could  write  two  remarkable  books 
if  they  wrote  for  ever.' 

On  the  production  of  '  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,' 
Mr  Tupper  wrote  the  author  to  this  effect :  '  I 
desire  to  congratulate  you  heartily  on  having  made 
popular  so  good  and  true  a  7'efrain  as  '  It  is  Never 
too  Late  to  Mend.'  Despair  of  good  is  the  great 
and  evil  antagonist,  which,  so  long  as  there  is  Life 
and  Hope,  it  is  worth  any  Man's  while  to  try  and 
conquer,  and  you  possibly  may  have  done  more 
good  by  your  acted  morals  at  the  Princess's  than 
many  bishops  in  many  cathedrals.     Perge,  prosper.' 

250 


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HI 

PREPARATIONS   FOR  THE   PRESS 

Kate  Terry :  '  The  meekest,  tenderest,  and  most 
intelligent  actress  of  her  day.  Young  in  years  but 
old  in  expression,  and  fuller  of  talent  than  an  egg 
is  of  meat.' 

Sothern :  '  A  dry  humourist.  I  believe  he 
professes  to  mesmerise,  and  is  an  imitator  of  the 
Davenport  Brothers.  He  can  get  his  hands  out  of 
any  knot  I  can  tie.  His  Dundreary  is  true  comedy, 
not  farce.  He  is  as  grave  as  a  judge  over  it,  and 
in  that  excellent  quality  a  successor  to  Liston.' 

Ada  Menken :  '  A  clever  woman  with  beautiful 
eyes,  very  dark  blue.  A  bad  actress,  but  made  a 
hit  by  playing  Mazeppa  in  tights.  A  quadrogamist. 
Her  last  husband  was,  I  believe,  John  Heenan  ;  I 
saw  him  fight  Tom  Sayers.*  Goodish  heart ;  loose 
conduct.     Requiescat  in  pace  !  ' 

Ben  Webster:  'An  admirable  actor  when  he 
happens  to  know  his  words.' 

If  any  special  information  were  needed  upon  a 
particular  subject  Reade  had  recourse  to  one  or  two 
humble  followers  whose  success  in  literature  had  not 
been  commensurate  with  their  ambition.  These 
gentlemen  were  employed  to  hunt  up  authorities, 
make  excerpts,  etc.,  at  the  British  Museum,  and 
thus  it  was  that  his  fiction  always  appeared  like 
fact. 

In  preparing  his  material  for  the  press  he  was 
equally  precise.  He  would  rush  off  his  copy  in  his 
great  sprawling  hand  on  huge  sheets  of  drab-coloured 
paper — which,  he  alleged,  rested  and  cooled  his  eyes 
— then  carefully  revise.  This  done,  he  would  fre- 
quently read  aloud  to  us  chapter  after  chapter,  and 
discuss  incidents,  treatment,  etc.  It  was  seldom  that 
he  did  not  avail  himself  of  some  suggestion,  and 
frequently  some  happy  thought  would  occur  in  the 
course  of  conversation.  After  the  next  revision  the 
chapters  were  handed  over  to  his  copyist,  who  wrote 
a  hand  like  copperplate ;  then  came  the  final  re\dse, 
if  this  did  not  deface  the  MS.  too  much  it  was  sent 

*  So  did  I,  and  a  very  fine  fight  it  was. — J.  C. 
261 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

to  the  printer ;  if,  however,  the  MS.  was  illegible 
then  a  second  copy  was  made.  He  had  not  always 
been  so  careful ;  Punch  once  declared  that  a 
perplexed  compositor  threw  himself  off  Waterloo 
Bridge  in  a  fit  of  despair  occasioned  by  the  illegi- 
bility of  Reade's  manuscript.  He  took  this  bad 
joke  so  much  to  heai-t  that  he  thenceforward  made 
legibility  an  imperative  consideration. 

The  copyist  who  worked  for  him  for  years  died 
under  very  distressing  circumstances.  Poor  S.  had 
been  a  prompter  in  his  time.  His  was  the  old, 
old  story :  there  had  been  a  faithless  wife,  a  deserted 
home,  a  motherless  child  who  died.  The  man  lost 
himself,  took  to  drink,  became  a  slave  to  it,  and 
was  a  pitiable  object  to  behold.  This  infirmity  was 
the  one  of  all  others  which  Reade  most  loathed ; 
yet  he  always  bore  with  poor  S.,  and  did  all  he 
could  to  protect  him  from  himself  If  the  unfor- 
tunate creature  ever  got  a  lump  sum  of  money  into 
his  hands  he  melted  it  immediately  in  drink,  hence 
it  was  always  doled  out  to  him  by  instalments. 
Latterly  it  became  absolutely  necessary  to  have  the 
work  done  in  the  house.  When  I  last  saw  him  he 
came  to  draw  some  money ;  he  took  it  without  a 
word,  and  passed  out  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  A 
fortnight  afterwards  I  read  in  the  papers  that  he 
had  been  found  dead,  seated  in  a  dilapidated  chair 
in  a  dismantled  garret,  a  horrible  place  festooned 
with  cobwebs  and  reeking  with  filth.  An  empty 
gin  bottle  was  by  his  side,  the  pipe  which  had  fallen 
from  his  hand  lay  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  ground, 
a  few  shillings  were  still  left  in  his  pocket.  At  the 
post-mortem  examination  the  stomach  was  found  to 
be  entirely  empty.  It  was  stated  that  he  had  lived 
for  years  in  this  wretched  den.  He  had  never  been 
known  to  receive  a  visitor,  nor  had  any  human  being 
ever  crossed  his  threshold  from  the  time  he  took 
possession  of  it  till  they  found  him  dead  in  the 
broken  chair. 

So  thorough  was  Reade  even  at  the  beginning 

252 


TOUCHING   "CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE" 

of  his  career  that,  as  before  related,  in  order  to 
acquire  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  details  requisite 
for  the  story  of  "  Christie  Johnstone,"  he  lived 
amongst  the  fisher-folk  for  some  time,  and  abso- 
lutely entered  into  the  herring-fishery  business  as  a 
commercial  speculation,  providing  the  requisite  capital, 
and  going  out  with  these  good  people  night  after 
night  on  their  fishing  expeditions. 

Amongst  his  unpublished  papers  he  has  left  one, 
wi'itten  at  that  period,  endorsed  thus : 


Auto-Criticism  on  "  Christie  Johnstone  " 

(Curious,  and  reaUy  not  bad.) 

'  The  author  of  *  Christie  Johnstone '  is  fuU  of 
details,  but  they  are  barren  details.  He  deals  in 
those  minuticie  which  are  valuable  according  to  the 
hand  that  mixes  them,  but  he  has  not  the  art  of 
mixing  his  materials.  Hence  the  compound,  with 
some  exceptions,  is  dry  and  lumpy.  .  .  .  ]Mr  Reade 
has  good  thoughts  which  he  could  clothe  with  logic, 
but  he  cannot  dress  them  in  the  garb  Fiction 
requires.  ,  .  . 

He  should  associate  himself  with  one  of  our 
authoresses :  we  have  several  whose  abilities  are  his 
counterpart.  He  has  plenty  to  tell  us,  and  cannot 
tell  it ;  they  have  nothing  to  say,  and  say  it  to 
perfection.  The  pair  would  produce  a  novel  con- 
siderably above  the  average — something  we  should 
read  with  pleasure  and  lay  aside  with  delight.' 

In  another  unpublished  paper  he  falls  foul  of  the 
author  of  a  somewhat  atrabilious  article  published 
in  Fraser  (1858),  called  'Poets  and  Players.'  The 
writer  (anticipating  Sir  Francis  Burnand  by  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century)  starts  with  the  assump- 
tion that  Shakespeare's  are  not  good  acting  plays 
for  our  days ;  that  they  are  two  hundred  years  too 
late ;  that  they  may  do  very  well  for  the  closet ; 
that  the   actors   of  the  time   (including   Macready, 

253 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Kean,  Phelps,  etc.)  were  incapable  of  comprehend- 
ing the  bard,  or  of  acting  him  so  as  to  interest 
the  public,  etc. 

It  is  perfectly  delightful  to  see  the  ease  with  which 
this  superfine  gentleman  is  shut  up  by  our  author, 
who  commences  by  pointing  out  that,  besides  being 
a  poet,  Shakespeare  was  not  only  a  manager,  but 
actually  a  player ;  that  the  criticasters  who  pretend 
to  an  intimate  and  perfect  knowledge  of  the  unacted 
and  unactable  plays  of  the  great  master  absolutely 
know  nothing  whatever  about  him,  except  through 
the  medium  of  the  familiar  acting  plays  and  the 
inspired  utterances  of  the  very  players  whom  they 
constantly  endeavour  to  depreciate. 

In  confirmation  of  this  statement  Reade  affirms 
that  if  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  these  learned 
pundits  were  asked  who  was  the  author  of  the  lines 
'  Off  with  his  head !  So  much  for  Buckingham ! ' 
and  '  Richard's  himself  again  I '  they  would  unhesitat- 
ingly reply  :  '  AA^hy,  Shakespeare,  of  course  ! ' 

After  a  glowing  eulogy  upon  INIacready's 
'  Macbeth ' — which  he  (Reade)  alleges  threw  more 
light  upon  the  subject  in  three  short  hours  than  all 
the  tedious  twaddle  critics  and  commentators  have 
written  in  three  centuries — he  demolishes  the  asser- 
tion that  '  Shakespeare's  plays  were  made  for  the 
closet '  by  showing  that  the  poems,  the  sonnets  — 
*  Venus  and  Adonis,'  '  Lucrece,'  etc.,  which  were 
really  intended  for  the  closet — were  pubhshed  in  the 
poet's  Hfetime,  while  the  plays  which  were  intended 
for  the  stage  were  jealously  kept  in  manuscript,  and 
were  only  to  be  seen  or  heard  through  the  medium 
of  their  especially  chosen  interpreters,  the  players, 
till  after  the  play-wright's  death! 

The  position  Leo  assumes  towai'ds  the  players 
in  this  article  reminds  one  not  a  little  of  Johnson's 
attitude  to  Garrick.  Ursa  major  would  bully  *  httle 
Davy'  himself,  but  woe  betide  any  outsider  who 
attempted  to  lay  profane  hands  on  the  great  httle 
man  while  Bruin  was  to  the  fore! 

254 


ERASER   V.    SHAKESPEARE 

Ha\'ing  all  my  life  urged  by  every  means  in 
my  power  the  desirability,  nay,  the  absolute  necessity 
for  a  national  theatre — not  only  to  preserve  the 
national  drama,  but  to  preserve  the  art  of  acting 
it  from  extinction  ;  and  even  beyond  that,  to  preserve 
to  posterity  the  art  of  speaking  the  language  destined 
to  rule  the  world  at  its  highest  standard  of  excel- 
lence— I  quote  from  him  who  "  being  dead  yet 
speaketh "  trumpet-tongued  on  this  subject. 

Here  are  Ids  words  : 

"  Shakespeare  found  in  his  day  actors  who,  though 
since  eclipsed,  could  speak  his  greatest  lines  up  to 
his  intention,  and  more  to  his  mind  than  he  could 
himself:  this  is  proved  by  his  taking  the  second-rate 
parts  in  his  own  plays.  {N.B.—The  only  manager  in 
creation  that  ever  did  this  or  ever  will.  Que  voulez- 
vous  ?)  He  was  Shakespeare  in  this  too.  Eraser's 
decision  against  the  Macbeth  and  Hamlet  of 
actors  is  therefore  resolvable  into  Era^ser  versus 
Shakespeare. 

Comparison  of  subjects  ends  the  moment  the 
adjective  '  bad '  is  covertly  introduced  inside  a  sub- 
stantive :  bad  speaking  misleads  the  weak  mind 
as  to  the  nature  of  speech ;  bad  acting  misleads 
the  muddle -head  about  the  meaning  of  the  word- 
acting. 

The  real  condition  of  words  is  this :  written 
words  are  the  fair,  undisfigured  corpses  of  spoken 
words.  A  vulgar  actor,  or  any  bad  speaker, 
mutilates  these  corpses  more  or  less ;  but  an  artist 
of  the  tongue,  like  JNIacready,  Rachel,  or  Stirling, 
restores  to  those  corpses  the  soul  and  sunlight  they 
had  when  in  the  author's  brain  and  breast. 

Since  a  comparative  slur  has  been  thrown  on 
JNIr  Macready's  '  Slacbeth  '  by  this  anonymous  writer, 
we  "s\dll  join  issue  on  that  gi'ound. 

Let  literary  critics  inspect  these  lines : 

*  Better  be  with  the  dead^ 
Whom  we  to  gain  our  place  have  sent  to  peace. 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  he 
In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave. 

255 


RANDOJM   RECOLLECTIONS 

After  Life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 
Treason  has  done  its  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  further.' 

and  afterwards  hear  Macready  speak  them.  If  they 
have  not  (as  many  of  our  hterary  friends  have !)  ears 
too  deaf  and  uncultivated  to  judge  the  triumphs  of 
speech,  they  will  acknowledge  they  could  never  have 
gathered  for  themselves  all  the  heavenly,  glowing 
beauty  this  artist  restores  to  the  stumbling  letter  of 
the  text. 

No  private  reader  could  ever  see  these  words 
as  Glover  used  to  fire  them  in  the  '  Clandestine 
Marriage ' : 

'  Will  Sir  John  take  Fanny  without  a  fortune  ? 
No  !  After  you  have  settled  the  largest  part  of  your 
property  on  your  youngest  daughter,  can  there  be 
an  equal  portion  left  the  elder  ?  No  !  Doesn't  this 
overturn  the  whole  system  of  the  family  ?     Yes  ! ' 

And  this  force  is  not  superadded,  as  our  critic 
might  think ;  it  comes  in  most  cases  by  oral  descent 
from  the  author. 

What  mere  reader  could  see  the  full  value  of 
the  '  Zaire:,  "oous  pleurez '  of  Voltaire  ?  The  author 
did.  Actors  have  succeeded  to  his  mind  as  well 
as  his  syllables,  and  it  is  only  by  the  stage  these 
words  are  still  Voltaire,  and  more  than  his  shadow. 

The  reader  of  '  Otway '  comes  to  these  words, 
'  Remember  Twelve  I '  *  He  sees  nothing  in  them, 
and  passes  on.  Yet  for  years  these  words  were  never 
spoken  on  the  stage  without  a  round  of  applause. 

'  //  se  souvienty'  says  Rachel,  in  '  Le  Vieux  de 
la  Mont  ague.'  A  murmur  of  admiration  bursts 
from  the  cold  but  intelligent  Theatre  Francais ;  yet 
what  are  those  words  to  any  mere  reader  ? 

Read  the  httle  modern  play  called  '  Time  Tries 
All ' :  you  are  untouched  by  the  letters  of  which 
it  is  composed,  yet  when  Stirling  gives  the  author 
to  the  public,  bearded  men  are  seen  crying ;  and  so 
it  is  more  or  less  in  all  plays  ;  less  so  in  Shakespeare's 

*  Belvidera  in  "  Venice  Preserved," 
256 


SHAKESPEARE'S  OWN  STAGE  BUSINESS 

or  Sheridan's  than  in  unreadable  plays ;  but  the 
distinction  is  one  of  degree,  not  kind.  Shakespeare's 
gain  as  much  in  themselves  as  the  diamond  by 
being  shaped  and  polished.  The  dumb-play,  that 
great  pictorial  narrative,  is  the  ground-work  of  all 
human  plays  ;  the  words  are  but  the  flowers. 

Whoever  can  measure  human  talent  has  ob- 
served that  a  novel,  equal  or  a  little  inferior  to  a 
given  play,  is  thrice  as  attractive  to  read ;  and  why  ? 
Because  the  novelist  paints  the  dumb-play  of  his 
characters,  and  with  his  best  colours  too ;  the  dram- 
atist is  obliged  to  leave  this  to  the  stage,  and  the 
stage  does  it.  Such,  then,  is  the  double  force  of 
speaking,  looks,  and  burning  words  that  it  is 
impossible  any  play  can  be  in  the  closet  what  it  can 
be  on  the  stage,  if  well  acted. 

It  is  always  the  fate  of  the  stage  to  be  most 
talked  of  by  those  who  know  least  about  it ! 

The  stage  is  the  unique  repository  of  oral 
traditions  in  lettered  nations. 

The  melodies  Ophelia  sings,  and  her  pretty  ballad 
twang;  have  eome  from  month  to  mouth  siiiee  Shakes- 
peare's time,  engraved  on  the  hoards,  not  printed  in 
the  volumes.  The  husiiiess  of  the  stage,  the  positions 
of  the  personages,  are  in  many  cases  Shakespeare's  ozvn  ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  by  those  ivho  know  the  stage 
that  hundreds  and  thousands  of  Shakespeare's  own  tones 
and  inflections  live  on  the  stage  and  by  the  stage — to 
perish  with  the  stage,  the  towers,  the  palaces,  the 
temples,  and  the  globe. 

Non  omnia  possumus  omnes. 

The  senses,  like  the  stage,  are  what  man  chooses 
to  make  them.  They  are  avenues  by  which,  if  well 
kept,  wisdom  and  beauty  have  access  to  the  soul. 
They  can  also  be  left  fallow,  blunted,  perverted,  or 
degraded.  Wherefore,  the  stage  is  of  service  to  man 
by  preserving  the  great  sense  of  hearing  from  slow- 
ness, rusticity,  and  degradation,  and  the  great  and 
godlike  art  of  speech  from  being  lost !  Ay !  from 
being  utterly  lost ! 

They  have  heard  to  little  purpose  who  have  not 

R  257 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

discovered  how  much  mouthing  and  very  httle  correct 
speaking  there  is  in  churches,  courts  of  law,  ParUament, 
and  society.  Great  speaking  there  is  none,  except 
on  the  stage — where  there  is  so  devihsh  Httle.  This 
need  not  be  so,  must  not  be  so,  ^vill  not  be  so,  shall 
not  be  so  I  But  so  long  as  it  is  so,  let  us  work  from 
the  centre  which  does  exist,  and  create  a  circum- 
fe7xnce  (i.e.  a  National  Theatre)  I 

Let  us  foster  the  unique  germ  of  this  great  art. 
Let  the  stage  be  chastised,  not  stabbed ;  lashed,  not 
barbarously  tomahawked.  Let  the  average  manager 
cease  to  carry  his  want  of  morals  to  stupidity,  and  his 
want  of  intellect  to  a  crime.  Let  the  average  actor 
(that  strange,  mad  lump  of  conceit,  ignorance,  and 
stale  tricks)  be  compelled  to  learn  something  (at 
present  he  is  the  one  spectator  who  learns  nothing) 
from  those  true  artists  of  the  tongue,  the  face,  and 
the  person,  who  now  place  art  in  vain  by  the  side  of 
his  threadbare  artifice  ;  who  portray  the  emotions  with 
various  and  true  looks ;  and  whose  golden  lips  shoot 
great  words  to  the  ear,  burning  and  breathing  a  beauty, 
a  glory,  a  music,  and  a  life,  that  those  words  can 
never  carry  to  the  soul  through  the  cold  and  uncertain 
medium  of  the  eye  ! ' 

When  I  turn  from  these  eloquent  and  burning 
words  to  my  own  prosaic  periods,  I  protest  I  feel 
as  methinks  I  ought  to  feel  were  1  doomed  to 
descend  from  heaven  to  earth.  Yet  can  I  not 
deny  myself  a  last  word  on  a  subject  so  dear  to 
my  heart,  a  subject  of  such  vital  importance  to  the 
English-speaking  race  in  every  part  of  the  habitable 
globe. 

Apart  from  the  potentiality  of  the  pleasure,  the 
delight  it  affords  us,  it  surely  cannot  be  even  ques- 
tioned that  the  Drama  is  the  most  potent  educa- 
tional medium  in  existence  ! 

This  fact  is  practically  recognised  by  every 
nation  in  Europe  except  our  own  I  There  is  not 
the  smallest  town  on  the  Continent  which  does 
not    possess    a    Theatre    subsidised    either    by    the 

258 


PLEA   FOR  A   NATIONAL   THEATRE 

Government  or  the  Municipality.     This  movement 
has  spread  even  to  Russia  ! 

Emulating  Napoleon — who  at  Tilsit  decreed  the 
laws  which  to  this  day  sway  the  house  of  Moliere 
— while  Siberia  still  awaits  development,  and  Man- 
churia annexation,  the  Autocrat,  still  in  the  prime  of 
youthful  manhood,  has  ordered  an  Imperial  Commis- 
sion to  report  on  the  progress  of  dramatic  art  in  all  the 
Russias.  This  report  declares  unanimously  that  the 
Theatre  caiinot  be  considered  to  stand  on  the  same 
level  as  other  places  of  amusement ;  that  its  Educa- 
tional influence  is  of  importance  to  the  state  ;  and  that, 
therefore,  the  Theatre  has  the  right  to  demand  the  pro- 
tection and  assistance  of  the  Government  ! 

This  is  the  action  of  Russia — of  barbarous,  un- 
civilised, illiterate,  aggressive  Russia !  Yet  here,  in 
the  metropolis  of  the  world,  although  for  weeks 
past  the  business  of  the  Commons  has  been  blocked 
by  the  New  Education  Bill,  not  one  man  in  the 
House  has  even  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Theatre 
as  an  Educational  medium.  Yes,  here  where  we 
have  the  noblest  Drama,  hallowed  by  the  noblest 
traditions  of  dramatic  art  in  the  world,  we  look 
supinely  on,  while  both  are  perishing  for  lack  of 
sustenance ! 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  I  intend,  even  by 
a  hint  or  an  inference,  to  disparage  the  work  done 
by  individual  enterprise. 

Irving  and  Wyndham,  Barrett  and  Tree,  Harrison 
and  Maude  and  Alexander  have  done  much,  and  will 
doubtless  do  more ;  but  when  they  are  gone,  what 
then? 

"  Men  may  come  and  men  may  go," 

but  the  Drama  should  endure  for  ever. 

Even  the  good  work  that  these  distinguished 
artists  have  done  will  be  utterly  lost  unless  some 
means  are  speedily  taken  to  preserve  it. 

Think  of  that,  O  gentleman  of  the  Commons  and 
the  County  Council! — and  you.  Sire,  most  illustrious  of 
all   play-goers,  at  whose  breath  arose  the  moribund 

259 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Imperial  Institute  ! — and  you,  O  multi-millionaires, 
who  have  more  money  than  you  know  what  to  do 
with ! — and  ye,  O  feckless  play-actors,  who  do  not 
comprehend  that  your  delightful  art  is  designed  for 
nobler  ends  than  the  mere  beguilement  of  the  after- 
dinner  ennui  of  sybarites  and  sensualists  ! — Awake  I 
Arise!  Unite!  Agitate!  and  remember  "God  helps 
those  who  help  themselves  ! " 

After  this  digression  let  us  return  to  Albert  Gate. 

Work  done,  from  two  to  four  was  devoted  to 
receiving  company.  People  of  every  description 
came  —  with  or  without  introductions,  especially 
our  transatlantic  cousins  (He  was  very  partial  to 
America  and  Americans  !),  *'  swells,"  brother-authors, 
actors,  and  actresses,  especially  the  latter.  Some  of 
them  had  never  acted,  but  they  only  needed  the 
opportunity  to  "  set  the  Thames  on  fire " ;  others 
had  acted,  but  had  been  "  crushed  "  by  managers,  and 
were  "  resting  for  want  of  something  to  do." 

Here,  too,  came  with  her  sorrow  the  wife  of  a 
)itJ*/^%*x^K ■  famous  soldier,  who  had  compromised  himself  by  a 
scandalous  indiscretion  which  wrecked  a  brilliant 
career.  He  had  paid  dearly  and  justly  for  his  folly, 
had  suffered  twelve  months'  imprisonment  had  been 
degraded  and  dismissed  from  the  service.  One  would 
have  thought  that  this  punishment  might  have  sufficed ; 
but  at  that  particular  period  we  were  subject  to  one 
of  our  periodical  attacks  of  ferocious  morality — Mrs 
Grundy  (dear  old  soul!)  was  up  in  arms — hence  the 
price  of  the  culprit's  commission  was  forfeited,  and 
his  wife  and  children  were  left  to  starve  !  This  ex- 
cited my  compassion  and  my  indignation.  Grave  and 
important  considerations  deterred  Reade  from  taking 
action  at  that  moment  in  the  matter,  but  he  sym- 
pathised so  deeply  with  this  unfortunate  lady  that  he 
urged  me  'to  bell  the  cat.'  Nothing  loth,  I  penned 
a  letter  denouncing  this  scandalous  injustice.  He 
revised  the  epistle,  pointed  a  line  or  two  with  words 
of  fire,  put  it  into  the  hands  of  his  copyist,  and  sent 
a  copy  to  each  of  the  influential  journals,  not  one 

260 


LIFE   AT   NABOTH'S   VINEYARD 

of  which  deigned  to  insert  it.  Two  or  three  months 
later  he  himself  wrote  a  temperate  and  dignified 
appeal  for  mercy — alas !  in  vain. 

The  broken  soldier,  ostracised  and  exiled,  was 
compelled  to  devote  to  a  foreign  potentate  the  sword 
he  was  no  longer  permitted  to  \\deld  on  behalf  of 
his  country. 

After  years  of  banishment  the  regiment  he  had 
once  led  to  glory  arrived  at  Alexandria.  He  went 
on  board  ship  to  greet  his  old  comrades.  By  a  happy 
inspiration  the  band  struck  up  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  ; 
then,  as  by  magic,  insular  frigidity  melted  like 
snow  before  the  sun,  mihtary  discipline  was  cast  to 
the  winds,  while  a  cohort  of  bronzed  and  bearded 
warriors  cast  themselves  at  the  feet  of  their  lost 
leader,  shouting  like  maniacs,  shrieking  like  women, 
and  weeping  like  children.  Nor  they  alone ;  for 
when  the  wire  brought  the  news  to  England,  and  the 
writer  of  these  lines  took  it  down  to  Albeit  Gate, 
two  men  and  a  woman  wept  also. 

It  was  their  infirmity  to  be  "  built  that  way." 

They  had  never  even  seen  this  wrecked  and 
ruined  Free  Lance,  but  they  knew  that  at  the  fateful 
moment  when  his  accuser  clung  to  the  doorstep  of  the 
flying  railway  carriage,  she  appealed  to  him  to  save 
her  or  she  must  fall  and  be  dashed  to  pieces  ! "  They 
knew,  too,  that  a  cur  would  have  saved  himself ;  but 
he  was  a  man,  and  saved  her — to  his  own  undoing. 

He  is  dead  now ;  so  may  his  faults  lie  gently  on 
him.  Shame  to  say,  however,  from  that  day  to  this 
restitution  has  not  been  made  to  the  wife  and  children 
who  were  so  cruelly  defrauded  in  the  name  of  moral 
and  military  discipline. 

Upon  another  occasion  I  encountered  a  wretched 
woman  who  had  been  mixed  up  in  that  dreadful 
*  Penge '  business.  She  came  to  express  her  grati- 
tude to  the  man  who  had  the  courage  to  ari'aign  an 
eminent  judge  at  the  bar  of  public  opinion  and 
impugn  his  law  —  the  man  who  restored  her  to 
freedom,  and  unquestionably  saved  the  lives  of  the 
miserable  Stauntons. 

261 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Hither,  too,  came  disappointed  poets,  play-wrights, 
escaped  lunatics,  broken-down  sailors,  ticket -of-leave 
men,  etc.  To  most  of  these  the  host  Avould  give 
a  patient  hearing,  and  not  unfrequently  consolation, 
advice,  and  assistance. 

Our  visitors  disposed  of.  we  made  our  way  to 
toAMi,  usually  devoting  a  couple  of  hours  to  the  club 
or  our  friends,  generally  winding  up  in  Covent  Garden, 
from  whence  we  returned  to  dinner,  laden  with  fruit 
and  flowers  whenever  they  were  in  season.  Lunch 
mine  host  never  took.  '  It  is  an  insult  to  one's 
breakfast,'  he  alleged,  '  and  an  outrage  on  one's 
dinner.'  The  menu,  unless  upon  state  occasions, 
commenced  with  fish  ;  soup  he  despised.  His  taste 
in  the  former  was  peculiar.  He  preferred  herring 
(which,  when  fresh  from  the  sea,  he  always  main- 
tained was  the  most  delicate  and  delicious  fish  that 
ever  came  to  table)  to  turbot,  sole  to  salmon.  The 
next  course  consisted  of  mutton  (beef  he  abominated) 
or  white  meats,  followed  by  game,  pastry,  and  fruit, 
washed  down  by  sparkling  wine,  of  which  he  was  a 
connoisseur.  During  all  our  acquaintance  I  never  saw 
him  taste  a  glass  of  beer,  and  he  loathed  the  very  smell, 
of  tobacco ;  spiiits  he  rarely  or  ever  tasted.  Once, 
however,  when  he  was  staying  with  us  in  the  country, 
my  landlord,  who  was  a  famous  wine-merchant,  made 
me  a  present  of  a  case  of  wonderful  white  Santa-Cruz 
rum.  It  was  very  old,  and  made  into  punch  was  a 
most  insidious  beverage.  On  one  occasion,  when  we 
came  home  cold  and  weary  from  a  long  night  rehearsal, 
I  broached  a  bottle,  made  it  into  punch  and  tempted 
Reade  into  tasting  it.  He  took  to  it  very  kindly. 
Indeed,  during  the  remainder  of  his  visit,  he  invariably 
looked  out  for  a  night-cap  of  this  pleasant  tipple. 
Next  time  I  came  to  town  I  brought  with  me  a  dozen 
bottles,  and  he  used  to  say  nightly  to  Egeria :  '  Pro- 
duce the  poisoned  bowl.  This  young  villain  is  always 
leading  me  into  temptation.  If  I  '  fall  into  evil,'  it 
will  be  his  fault.' 

In   our   moments   of  confidence  he  preferred  to 
talk  about  his  plays  rather  than  his  books.      I  pre- 

262 


TABLE   TALK 

fen-ed  to  talk  about  the  latter,  especially  about  his 
masterpiece,  '  'J'he  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.'  The 
labour  and  research  involved  in  this  remarkable  work 
were  enormous,  yet  it  was  nearly  strangled  at  its 
birth.  ^Vs  before  stated,  when  originally  brought 
out  under  the  name  of  '  A  Good  Fight '  in  Once 
a  Week,  its  pubhcation  was  suspended  in  conse- 
quence of  the  Editor's  tampering  with  the  "  copy," 
an  indignity  which  the  author  resented  by  breaking 
off  further  relations  and  abruptly  and  unsatisfactorily 
winding  up  the  story.  Ultimately,  however,  it  saw 
the  light  in  a  complete  form  under  its  present  well- 
known  title. 

The  unfortunate  Editor  of  this  journal  was  shortly 
afterwards  immured  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  whereupon 
Reade  made  one  of  his  characteristic  remarks.  '  Poor 
fellah  1 '  he  said,  '  poor  fellah  I  I'm  sorry  for  him. 
Of  course,  I'm  bound  to  be  sony  as  a  Christian,  but 
what  else  could  be  expected  from  a  fellah  who  pre- 
sumed to  tamper  with  my  copy  ? ' 

In  discussing  the  merits  of  his  works  (he  was  by  no 
means  averse  to  discussion  on  this  or  any  other  subject, 
except  politics  and  the  Athanasian  Creed,  both  of 
which  he  avoided  and  detested)  I  always  maintained 
the  supremacy  of  '  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth ' 
over  all  his  other  books ;  but  in  this  case,  as  in  the 
drama,  his  barometer  was  failure  or  success,  and  he 
declared  that  he  would  never  go  out  of  his  own  age 
again.  '  I  write  for  the  public,'  he  said,  '  and  the 
public  don't  care  about  the  dead.  They  are  more 
interested  in  the  living,  and  in  the  great  tragi-comedy 
of  humanity  that  is  around  and  about  them  and  en- 
virons them  in  every  street,  at  eveiy  crossing,  in 
every  hole  and  corner.  An  aristocratic  divorce  suit, 
the  last  great  social  scandal,  a  sensational  suicide 
from  Waterloo  Bridge,  a  woman  murdered  in  Seven 
Dials,  or  a  baby  found  strangled  in  a  bonnet-box  at 
Piccadilly  Circus,  interests  them  much  more  than 
Margaret's  piety  or  Gerard's  journey  to  Rome.  For 
one  reader  who  has  read  '  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth,'   a  thousand   have   read   '  It   is   Never    too 

263 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Late  to  Mend.'  The  paying  public  prefers  a  live  ass 
to  a  dead  lion.  Similia  similibus :  why  should  the 
ass  not  have  his  thistles  ?  Besides,  thistles  are  good, 
wholesome  diet  for  those  who  have  a  stomach  for 
them.  No,  no  I  No  more  doublet  and  hose  for  me  ; 
henceforth  I  stick  to  trousers.  Now,  after  that,  if 
you  please,  pass  the  wine  and  change  the  subject.' 

Of  all  his  contemporaries  he  yielded  the  palm  to 
Dickens,  and  to  him  alone.  Him  he  always  acknow- 
ledged as  his  master. 

Next  for  variety  and  scope  came  Bulwer  Lytton. 

Carlyle,  he  said,  was  a  'Johnsonian  pedant, 
bearish,  boorish  and  bumptious,  egotistical  and 
,twav!)  -  atrabilious.  His  Teutonic  English  was  barbarous 
and  cacophonous ;  yet,  notwithstanding,  every  line 
he  wrote  was  permeated  with  vigour  and  sincerity, 
and  his  '  Cromwell '  is  a  memorial  of  two  great 
men — the  hero  and  the  author.' 
— '  Macaulay  always  posed  himself, 

'  As  who  should  say,  '  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips  let  no  dog  bark  ! ' ' 

but  with  this  intellectual  arrogance  he  combined  a 
grand  rhythmical  style,  a  marvellous  learning,  and  a 
miraculous  memory.' 

Disraeli  was  'the  most  airy  and  vivacious  of 
literary  coxcombs,  the  most  dexterous  and  dazzling 
of  pohtical  harlequins,  the  most  audacious  of  adven- 
turers, the  most  lovable  of  men  (when  you  got  on  his 
M'^eak  side),  and,  altogether,  the  most  unique  and 
remarkable  personage  of  the  age.' 

Thackeray  he  designated  '  an  elegant  and  accom- 
plished wiiter.'  '  Esmond,'  he  added,  '  is  worthy  of 
_  Addison  at  his  best ;  but  some  of  the  '  Yellowplush 
Papers '  would  be  a  disgrace  to  Grub  Street,  and  the 
miserable,  personal  attacks  on  Bulwer  Lytton — 
who  has  written  the  best  play,  the  best  comedy,  and 
the  best  novel  of  the  age — are  unworthy  of  a  gentle- 
man and  a  man  of  letters.' 

TroUope  'wrote  a  good  deal  that  was  interesting 
t\^  \UU«  ^^^  ^  good  deal  that  was — not  interesting.' 
^  "  264 


OBITER  DICTA 

'  For  literary  ingenuity  in  building  up  a  plot  and 
investing  it  with  mystery,  give  nie  dear  old  Wilkie 
Collins  against  the  world.' 

'  George  Elliot's  metier  appears  to  me  to  consist 
principally  in  describing  with  marvellous  accuracy  the 
habits,  manners,  and  customs  of  animalculse  as  they 
are  seen  under  the  microscope.' 

'  Ouida  has  emerged  from  dirt  to  decency,  and 
even  dignity,  and  there  is  nothing  in  literature  more 
touching  and  beautiful  than  the  tale  of  '  Two  Little 
Wooden  Shoes.' 

I  remember  one  afternoon  he  commenced  to  read 
'Ariadne.'  Apparently  he  was  trying  to  interest 
himself  in  the  first  chapter.  By-and-by  I  heard  him 
mutter,  '  It  was  an  Ariadne !  It  was  a  beautiful 
Ariadne  !  It  was  a  divine  Ariadne  !  It  was  Ariadne 
the  invincible  I  Ariadne  the  all-subduing  !  Ariadne 
the  omnipotent !  Yes,  no  one  could  doubt  that  it 
was  Ariadne ! '  As  he  shied  the  book  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the  sheets 
of  plate-glass  with  which  it  was  lined,  he  impatiently 
exclaimed :  '  Of  course  it  was  Ariadne !  Who  the 
deuce  could  doubt  it  after  being  told  so  a  dozen  times 
running,  except  as  great  an  idiot  as  the  author  ? ' 

'  Miss  Braddon  is  as  quiet,  as  modest,  and  unas- 
suming as  she  is  accomplished.  Her  fertility  of  in- 
vention is  boundless,  her  industry  phenomenal,  her 
style  soimd  and  vigorous,  and  she  has  rare  dramatic 
instincts.' 

'  Rice  is  a  capital  fellow,  and  one  of  the  best 
constructors  of  a  story  going.' 

'  Besant  has  fertility,  invention,  pathos,  humour, 
power.  Except  that  he  is  occasionally  too  discursive, 
he  has  all  the  qualities  of  a  great  author,  and  he  is 
not  yet  at  his  zenith  !     The  greatest  is  behind.' 

'  Payne's  stories  have  beguiled  me  of  many  a 
weary  hour.  For  accuracy  of  detail,  ingenuity  of 
construction,  and  sustained  interest,  he  treads  hard 
upon  the  heels  of  Wilkie  Collins,  while  he  has  a 
quaint  grace  of  manner  and  an  occasional  epigram- 
matic sprightliness  all  his  own.' 

265 


\y 


Y 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

During  the  imfortiinate  Oscar  Wilde's  '"green 
carnation-and-sunflower  "  period,  Reade  remarked : 

'  Ah !  that  airy  young  gentleman  is  a  poscu7\ 
there's  no  mistake  about  that ;  but  he's  a  deuced 
sight  cleverer  than  they  think.  A  fellah  doesn't  take 
a  double-first  at  Oxford  for  nothing ;  besides,  he 
has  written  some  noble  lines.  Then  he  knows  a  lot 
about  art  and  nearly  ever}i:hing  about  painting. 
I  saw  him,  one  morning  at  the  Academy,  spot,  with 
unerring  accuracy,  every  picture  worth  looking  at. 
It's  true  there  were  not  a  great  many ;  but  such  as 
they  were  he  spotted  'em.' 

(At,  or  about  this  time,  happening  to  meet  this 
hapless  genius  at  a  garden-party  at  Miss  Braddon's, 
I  mentioned  incidentally  what  Reade  had  said. 

'  Bai  JoA'e ! '  exclaimed  the  creator  of  the  Green 
Carnation,  'I'm  dehghted.  I  saw  the  old  lion  that  day 
at  the  show,  and  longed  to  introduce  myself ;  but  he 
looked  so  austere  and  unapproachable  that,  with  all 
my  cheek,  I  dared  not.  Tell  him  so,  and  say,  had  I 
only  known  what  he  said  to  you,  I  should  have  been 
the  proudest  '  fella '  in  the  Academy  that  day  ! ') 

'  Hardy  and  Blackmore  ?  Big  men,  sir,  big — 
jt  '  almost  as  big  as  they  are  made  nowadays.  Those 
two  divine  girls — '  Bathsheba '  and  *  Lorna  Doone  ' 
— I'm  in  lo^•e  with  'em  both,  and  I  like  the  two  men 
— I  mean  the  labourer  and  the  big  fellah,  John — 
John — I  forget  his  name.  When  I  read  '  Lorna 
Doone '  I  can  see  Exmoor,  smeU  the  bracken,  hear 
the  rush  of  the  roaring  river.' 
^  '  A^ictor  Hugo  ?     Ah,  now  you  speak  of  a  demi- 

god ! 

'  Why  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  vorld 
Like  a  Colossus,  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs  and  peep  about ! ' 

He  is  the  one  supreme  genius  of  the  epoch,  but 
geniuses,  unfortunately,  sometimes  have  the  night- 
mare like  other  people.' 

'  Georges  Sand  should  ha^  e  been  a  man,  for 
she  was  a  most  manly  woman.' 

'  Glorious  old  Alexandre  Dumas  has  never  been 

266 


^/■-.?f^«*v 


ix. 


OBITER   DICTA— CONTINUED 

properly  appreciated  ;  he  is  the  prince  of  dramatists, 
the  king  of  romancists,  and  the  emperor  of  good 
fellows  ! ' 

*  Walter  Scott  was  one  of  the  world's  bene- 
factors, and  had  the  good  luck  to  have  the  first 
innings  in  'the  land  of  the  leal.' 

Reade  execrated  poetasters,  but  adored  poets, 
although  he  maintained  that  there  was  no  nobler 
vehicle  to  give  expression  ~to  fhouglit  than  nervous, 
simple  prose — that  prose  which  he  himself  cultivated 
to  so  true  a  pitch  of  art. 

'  Tennyson,'  he  alleged,  '  is  more  pretty  than 
potent.' 

We   went   together    to    see   '  The   Cup '   at   the  ^  ^ 

Lyceum.     He  remained  ominously  silent  during  the  -.ff^^ 

entire  performance.  When  the  play  was  over  I 
inquired  :  '  What  do  you  think  of  it  ? ' 

*  H'm !  Perhaps  it  might  have  proved  an  in- 
teresting spectacle,'  he  growled,  'if  the  words  had 
been  left  out ! ' 

'  Browning  is  a  man  of  genius,  but  he  gives  me 
too  much  trouble  to  understand.' 

'  Yes !  your  friend  Buchanan  is  a  poet,  but  I 
like  his  prose  best.  '  Balder,'  I  admit,  is  beautiful, 
but  'The  Shadow  of  the  Sword'  is  poetry  itself.' 

'  Edwin  Arnold  has  sparks  of  the  divine  afflatus, 
and  holds  his  own  among  the  best.' 

'  Swinburne  has  a  heart  of  gold,  a  muse  of  fire — 
a  little  too  fiery,  perhaps ;  but  I  was  young  once 
myself,  and  I,  too,  loved,  and  still  love,  the  gi'eat 
god   Pan ! ' 

He  always  harked  back  to  Byron,  Shelley,  and 
Scott.  The  last,  however,  was  his  greatest  favourite, 
and  he  would  recite  by  heart,  with  fervoiu',  long 
passages,  almost  cantos,  of  '  Marmion '  and  '  The 
Lady  of  the  Lake.' 

He  sometimes  complained  bitterly  of  what  he 
called  '  the  Shakespearean  craze,'  stoutly  maintaining 
that  the  people  who  talked  most  of  the  bard  knew 
least  about  him.  In  a  more  genial  mood  he  frankly 
admitted  the  supremacy  of  the  '  celestial  thief  to 

267 


p. 


RANDOM    RECOLLECTIONS 

all  men  who  came  before  or  after  him.  If  I  could 
only  set  him  going  about  '  Othello ' — the  one  perfect 
play  through  all  the  ages — he  would  discourse 
'thunder  and  lightning.' 

Music  was  his  special  delight,  but  his  taste  was 

as  exacting  as  it  was  culti^  ated.     Italian  Opera,  he 

always  maintained,  was,  both  in  form   and  method, 

an  emasculated  and  degraded  school  of  art.     Wagner 

was  a  giant,  a  hundred  years  in  advance  of  his  age, 

^^'^     and  his  theory  was  subhme  ;  but  alas !  after  all,  he 

.-•^"LgaJ^        lacked  melody. 

JI*^'         ^  Once  set  him  going  about  his  fiddles — -good-bye 

'      *v/*^  to  ever}i:hing  else.     He  had  at  the  tip  of  his  tongue 

*T    ^  his   violas,   his   viol   de   gambos,   his   viol   d'amores, 

***^  his   violins,   his    violoncellos,    his   double   basses,    his 

Cremonas,    his    Sanctus    Seraphin,    his    Stradivarius, 

his  Amatis,  his  Guarneriuses — and  I  know  not  how 

many  others.     He  could  tell  you  when  and  where 

they  were   made,  where   they   were  now,  what  was 

their    prime    cost,    and   what    their    present    value ; 

then,    with    a    chuckle,    he    would    tell    you    he'd 

bought  one  for  £20  and  sold  it  for  £120  ;  that  he 

had  bought  one  for  £.5,  now  worth  £500  ! 

It  was  very  trying  to  one's  temper  to  sit  beside 
him  in  a  theatre,  especially  if  we  happened  to  be 
in  the  stalls.  He  would  writhe  under  a  bad  perform- 
ance, and  not  hesitate  to  express  his  opinion  openly 
and  freely  about  it. 

'  High  art '  in  music  he  didn't  believe  in. 
*  What ! '  he  would  exclaim,  '  call  that  braying 
with  brass  and  torturing  of  catgut,  music  !  Ah, 
give  me  music  with  melody.' 

Painting  and  sculpture  were  either  his  delight 
or  his  abomination.  A  great  work  he  reverenced, 
nay,  adored ;    small  things  tortin-ed  him. 

His  appreciation  of  the  '  younger  of  the  sister 
arts'  was  but  too  frequently  affected  by  the 
public  estimate ;  hence  the  idol  of  to-day  was 
the  idiot  of  to-morrow,  or  vice  versa.  A  lady 
would  be  a  '  goddess '  in  one  part,  a  '  soulless 
lump  of  clay '  in  the  other.     An  actor  was  to-day 

268 


\\ 


MASTER   SPIRITS   OF   THE   STAGE 

eulogised  as  a  genius,  to-morrow  stigmatised  as  a 
'  duffer.' 

A  few  years  ago  we  went  together  to  see  a 
comedy  acted  at  a  West  End  theatre.  At  the  end  of 
the  fourth  act  he  rushed  out  in  disgust.  Next  day 
he  was  rampant  about  'this  idiotic  exhibition.' 
He  was  especially  furious  in  his  diatribes  against 
a  gentleman  who  formerly  had  been  his  beau-ideal 
of  all  that  was  gallant  and  chivalrous.  I  took 
exception  to  this  wholesale  slaughtering,  and  re- 
minded him  of  his  former  eulogies  upon  the  man 
whom  he  now  '  slated '  so  unmercifully. 

'  I  know,  I  know ! '  he  exclaimed.  '  I  was  ass 
enough  during  a  temporary  aberration  of  intellect 
to  admit  he  was  an  actor,  but  then  I  hadn't  seen  the 

beast  in .     Call  that  epicene  creature  with  the 

parrot's  nose  and  the  peacock's  voice — that  feather- 
bed tied  in  the  middle,  supported  in  a  perpendicular 
position  by  two  bolsters,  masses  of  wool  and  wad- 
ding, that  he  calls  legs — call  that  Punch-like  thing 
the  genial,  jovial,  manly  ?     No;  no! — 

*  These  things  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways  :  so,  it  will  make  us  mad.' 

He  was  not  quite  just  to  the  present  generation 
of  actors,  and  I  should  only  scatter  heartburnings 
were  I  to  quote  his  opinions,  which,  indeed,  varied 
from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour.  He  was 
himself  too  apt,  in  connection  with  this  subject,  to 
'wTeathe  dead  men's  bones  about  living  men's 
necks.' 

The  two  great  artists  whom  he  incessantly  cited 
as  being  '  the  choice  and  master  spirits  of  the  stage ' 
were  Macready  and  Farren  the  Elder.  In  his  estima- 
tion, no  living  actors  were  fit  to  be  named  in  the 
same  century  with  them.  After  them  came  Mrs 
Glover,  who  was  comedy  incarnate.  Mrs  Kean, 
liOAvever,  was  only  a  '  matronly  and  respectable 
actress ' ;  Mrs  Warner  '  a  passable  '  Lady  Macbeth  ; 
Charles  Kean  was  a  '  magnificent  stage-manager, 
but    a    mediocre    actor ' ;      Phelps    was     '  a    great 

269    ^^^ 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

comedian,  but  an  indifferent  tragedian ' ;  Charles 
Mathews,  un  petit  maitre ;  Sothern,  '  an  intel- 
lectual absurdity.'  "Bucky"  was  'funny,'  Keeley 
was  '  sleepy,'  Compton  was  '  funereal,'  Webster 
was  '  spasmodic  and  perpetually  imperfect,'  and 
so  on  to  the  end. 

Among  our  neighbours  he  admitted  that  Rachel 
and  Lemaitre  were  geniuses  ;  but  he  could  not  endure 
Fechter.  One  night  during  the  latter's  management 
of  the  Lyceum  we  went  to  see  '  The  Master  of 
Ravenswood.'  During  the  contract  scene  Edgar 
became  very  angry  with  Lucy,  and,  in  approaching 
her,  gesticulated  so  violently  that  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  about  to  strike  her.  Reade 
growled :  '  He'll  hit  her  in  the  eye  in  a  minute,  I 
know  he  will !  Ah  !  it's  always  the  way  with  those 
d — d  Frenchmen  where  women  are  concerned  — when 
they  are  not  sneaks  they  are  bullies ! ' 

The  teacup-and-saucer  comedy,  with  the  semi- 
chambermaid  heroine  and  the  petit  creve  hero  thereof 
he  despised  utterly.  *  Give  me,'  he  would  exclaim, 
'  a  man — one  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  men  ;  a  woman 
— none  of  your  skin-and-bone  abominations,  but  a 
real  live  woman,  made  as  God  made  their  mother 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  with  a  heart  in  her  body, 
limbs,  and  plenty  of  'em ;  limbs,  she  knows  how 
to  use,  '  hair  of  what  colour  it  shall  please  heaven,' 
a  voice  that  I  can  hear — a  voice  that  fires  me  like 
a  trumpet  or  melts  me  like  a  flute :  that  god-like 
instrument  makes  more  music  for  me  than  all  the 
fiddles  that  ever  squeaked  since  the  time  that  Nero 
fiddled  when  Rome  was  afire ;  not  that  I  would 
disparage  a  fiddle,  mind  you,  for  next  to  the  Queen 
of  Hearts  I  adore  the  King  of  Instruments.' 

Among  his  brother-dramatists  he  yielded  Bouci- 
cault  the  first  place.  '  Like  Shakespeare  and  Moli^re,* 
he  said,  '  the  beggar  steals  everything  he  can  lay 
his  hands  on ;  but  he  does  it  so  deftly,  so  cleverly, 
that  I  can't  help  condoning  the  theft.  He  picks 
up  a  pebble  by  the  shore  and  polishes  it  into  a 
jewel.     Occasionally,  too,  he  writes  divine  lines,  and 

270 


ON   CONTEMPORARY  DRAMATISTS 

knows  more  about  the  grammar  of  the  stage  than 
all  the  rest  of  them  put  together.' 

Planch^^  was  'the  modern  Aristophanes.  His 
every^Tme  glitters  ^^'ith  Attic  salt,  classic  grace, 
culture,  and  refinement.' 

AVills  was  '  a  splendid  poet,  but  only  a  passable 
play- Wright.' 

'  Hermann  Merivale's  fantasy,  '  The  White  Pil- 
grim,'~is  the  most  poetic  play  of  the  period,  but  it 
reads  better  than  it  acts — a  fatal  fault.  When  he 
has  mastered  the  art  of  construction  and  learned 
the  use  of  the  pruning-knife  this  poet  ought  to 
become  a  play-wright.' 

'Albery   has    ^vTitten    one   play   so  good   that    I     - 
can't  ^Understand   why    he   has    not   written    others 
better.' 

'  Burnand,  if  '  imitation  be  the  sincerest  flattery,' 
is  the'sreatest  flatterer  in  the  world.  A  mimetic 
phenomenon.  A  literary  freelance,  who  can  write 
without  any  ridiculous  scruples  on  any  subject,  and 
on  any  side,  with  equal  facility.' 

'  Pal^'aye  _Simpson  ?  dear  old  Pal's  lines  are 
WTitten  m  water,  but  his  plots  are  engraved  in 
steel.' 

'  Scribe  ?  the  cleverest  constructor  of  plots  that 
ever  contrived  one.' 

'  Victorien  Sardou  ?  a  dramatic  genius,  and  as 
good  a  stage-manager  as  you  are,  sir ! ' 

*  Dumas  fils  ?  a  vinegar  -  blooded  iconoclast  — 
shrewd,  clever,  audacious,  introspective,  and  mathe- 
matically logical.' 

Henry  Byron's  fertility  and  fecundity  excited  the  /  . .  . .  ,-y 
el der~3fafilati!?t's  astonishment  more  than  his  admira- 
tion. I  maintained  that  BjTon  wrote  admirable  Unes.  '  ; 
Reade  admitted  that,  but  alleged  that  he  could 
not  construct  a  plot.  Of  '  Our  Boys '  he  remarked  : 
'  It  is  an  amusing  farce,  but  the  only  human 
character  in  it  (old  Middlewick)  is  Lord  Duberly, 
in  coat  and  trousers,  transmogi'ified  into  a  cockney 
chandler.'                                                                                    ^  . 

He  was  scarcely  just   to  the  author   of  •  Caste,'  ^ 

271 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

alleging  that  he  had  palmed  off  Benedick  and  Augier's 
work  ('School  and  Home')  for  original  composi- 
tion ;  that  his  men  were  mannikins,  his  women 
(except  the  comic  ones)  clothes  -  props  ;  that  his 
method  Avas  small,  his  comedies  charades.  Occa- 
sionally I  took  up  the  cudgels  on  the  opposite  side, 
but  the  argument  always  ended  when  we  arrived 
at  the  last  act  of  '  Caste.'  That  unfortunate  baby 
of  George  D'Alroy's  always  stuck  in  the  throat  of 
the  author  of  '  The  Double  Marriage.'  '  Zounds  ! ' 
he  roared,  '  the  brutes  yelled  at  my  poor  bairn, 
but  I  believe  the  idiots  would  have  encored  that 
horse-marine  caricature  of  Rawdon  Crawley  if  he 
had  given  the  little  beast  the  pap-bottle,  coram 
populo  ! ' 

When  he  grew  tired  of  talking  we  sometimes 
played  a  game  of  whist :  in  which  he  took  dummy, 
and  always  beat  us. 

Apropos  of  cards,  one  evening,  after  an  early 
dinner  at  the  club,  strolling  homeward  down  Picca- 
dilly, we  turned  into  the  Egyptian  Hall  to  see 
Maskelyne  and  Cook's  entertainment.  The  room 
was  very  full,  but  the  officials,  who  knew  us,  brought 
us  two  chairs  in  fronL  Reade  became  very  much 
interested  in  a  remarkable  mechanical  figure  which 
played  at  cards  and  won  every  game.  After  observ- 
ing it  for  some  time,  he  was  convinced  that  he  had 
discovered  the  trick  of  it.  I  had  little  difficulty  in 
persuading  him  to  mount  the  platform  and  try  his 
skill  against  Psycho.  To  his  astonishment,  he  was 
beaten  easily,  almost  ignominiously. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  as  we  came  away,  '  that's 
extraordinary !  I  never  found  a  man  who  could 
lick  me  game  and  game ;  yet  I've  been  knocked 
out  of  time  three  games  running  by  a  beastly 
automaton ! ' 

Like  '  women  and  dogs  and  the  lower  animals,'  he 
was  instinctively  pronounced  in  his  likes  and  dislikes, 
so  much  so  that  his  conduct  was  occasionally  most 
embarrassing  to  other  people  ;  indeed,  at  times  he  was 
an  enfant  terrible  of  gigantic  dimensions. 

272 


EDWIN  JAMES,   Q.C. 

Here  is  an  illustration  : 

Upon  one  occasion,  while  staying  with  us,  I  asked 
him  to  take  a  certain  distinguished  actress  into  diiuier. 

Gi\ing  me  a  baleful  glare  he  marched  off  with 
the  lady ;  but  all  through  dinner  he  retired  upon  the 
impregnable  citadel  of  a  diplomatic  deafness,  and 
spake  no  word,  good,  bad.  or  indifferent. 

AVhen  our  guests  had  departed,  he  opened  fire 
with :  '  What  the  deuce  did  you  mean  by  planting 
on  to  me  that  Gorgon  with  the  head  of  a  seal  and 
the  voice  of  a  horse  ? ' 

An  contraire,  he  could  be  the  most  amiable  of 
hosts,  the  most  genial  of  gentlemen.  When  in  the 
mood  no  one  played  Amphitryon  with  a  more  courtly 
grace  or  a  more  cordial  welcome. 

Of  many  pleasant  evenings  at  Albert  Gate,  I  re- 
member one  or  two  with  more  than  usual  pleasure, 
especially  one  where  we  had  merely  2l  partie  carree — 
our  host  and  hostess,  Edwin  James,  the  once  eminent 
barrister,  then  recentfy  returned"  from  America,  and 
myself.  The  brilliant  career  of  this  unfortunate 
gentleman,  and  its  disastrous  termination,  will  be 
fresh  in  most  men's  minds.  On  his  return,  after  an 
absence  of  some  years,  he  was  left  in  the  cold  by  all 
his  old  friends  and  associates  save  Reade,  who  stood 
manfully  by  him.  I  was  particularly  interested  in 
the  record  of  this  bhghted  life.  The  name  of 
Buonaparte  had  always  been  hateful  to  me  since 
the  COIL})  cVet^t,  and  I  had  a  vi^'id  recollection  of 
James's  magnificent  defence  of  Dr  Bernard.  Nor 
was  this  all:  I  was  cognisant  of  many  generous 
acts  done  by  Mr  James  in  his  days  of  prosperity, 
especially  one,  which  occurred  within  my  own  know- 
ledge, had  always  impressed  me  strongly.  One  day 
he  found  on  the  brink  of  the  Serpentine  a  beautiful 
young  girl,  who  had  been  driven  from  her  home 
by  the  barbarity  of  brutal  relatives.  The  wretched 
child  contemplated  suicide.  Her  demeanour  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  spoke  to  her,  induced 
her  to  confide  her  unhappy  story  to  him,  found  her 
an  asylum,  fed,  clothed,  educated  her,  and  enabled 
s  273 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

her  to  go  on  the  Stage,  where  she  achieved  a 
distinguished  position.  To  her  dying  day  that  lady 
revered  the  memory  of  her  benefactor. 

He  and  Reade  had  been  schoolfellows  together. 
INIaster  Edwin  had  always  been  the  "  bad  boy,"  and 
he  recounted  with  great  glee  how  he  had  induced 
Charles  to  play  truant  with  him  to  go  to  a  Prize- 
fight, and  how  they  both  caught  "  Toko  "  when  they 
went  back.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  veterans 
"  act  their  young  encounters  o'er  again." 

It  was  said  that  Dickens  built  his  strident  legal 
bully  (for  whom  poor  Sidney  Carton  plays  lion's 
provider)  in  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities"  on  Edwin 
James,  and  that  the  great  novelist  prided  himself 
on  the  fidelity  of  the  portrait.  I,  at  least,  detected 
no  single  trait  of  resemblance  between  the  learned 
Serjeant  and  the  genial  gentleman  whose  acquaint- 
ance I  was  delighted  to  make  on  the  occasion  of 
this  pleasant  meeting. 

Reade  delighted  in  the  company  of  actors, 
and  gave  me  carte  hlanche  to  invite  my  com- 
rades. 

He  had  never  met  either  Phelps  or  Fechter, 
who  were  both  confreres  of  mine,  and  begged  me 
to  invite  them  to  Albert  Gate. 

Unfortunately  there  was  a  little  difficulty. 
Phelps,  as  the  reader  will  doubtless  remember, 
as  the  successor  of  Macready  and  the  rival  of 
Charles  Kean,  for  a  considerable  period  occupied 
one  of  the  foremost  places  on  the  English  stage. 

Fechter,  who  was  a  very  remarkable  man,  had 
made  his  mark  no  less  by  his  ability  than  by  his 
originality. 

His  performance  of  Ruy  Bias  had  been  much 
admired  at  the  Princess's,  though  it  had  failed  to 
attract. 

His  Hamlet,  despite  its  eccentricity,  had  many 
fine  points :  his  Othello  many  bad  ones.  In  the 
one  part  he  went  up  like  a  rocket,  in  the  other  he 
came  down  like  a  stick. 

Many  of  the  young  Uons  of  the  Press,  however, 

274 


PHELPS   AKD   FECHTER 

beslavered  with  fulsome  eulogy  whatever  he  did, 
while  they  depreciated  Phelps  and  the  rising  genera- 
tion of  English  actors. 

Noting  this,  Fechter,  who  was  a  hon  caviar ade, 
said  to  me,  with  a  grin :  '  Bah !  They  do  that  to 
butter  me  up  and  to  rile  you  chaps.  They  imagine 
I  am  a  real  Johnny  Crapaud !  Ah !  if  they  only 
knew  1  am  a  Hungarian  Italian  Cockney  .Tew, 
born  in  Hanway  Street,  Oxford  Street,  they'd  drop 
me  like  a  hot  potato ! ' 

AVhen  he  had  a  row  (his  engagements  always 
ended  in  a  row ! )  with  Augustus  Harris  the  Elder 
he  migrated  to  the  Lyceum  under  the  auspices  of 
Charles  Dickens,  who  was  a  gi'eat  admirer  of  his. 

It  was  currently  rumoured  at  the  time  that  the 
*  Baroness  '  financed  him,  but  I  am  assured  by  my 
friend  John  Hollingshead,  who  was  in  the  confidence 
of  both  Fechter  and  Dickens,  that  it  was  the  latter 
who  found  the  '  needful '  to  put  Fechter  into  the 
Lyceum. 

Upon  Dickens'  advice  he  endeavoured  to  suiTound 
himself  with  the  best  English  actors  attainable.  He 
succeeded  in  inducing  Phelps  to  enlist  under  his 
banner,  and,  as  before,  stated  offered  me  an  engage- 
ment. He  secured  George  ^^ining,  George  Jordan, 
Hermann  \^ezin,  Ryder,  Sam  Emery,  Harry  AViddi- 
combe,  John  Brougham,  and  Walter  JNIontgomery, 
while  his  ladies  comprised  Carlotta  Leclerq,  Kate 
Terry,  INIiss  Henrade,  and  JVIiss  Elsworthy. 

Immediately  previous  to  his  opening,  Sardou's 
first  drama,  'Le  Bossu,'  founded  upon  a  novel  of  Paul 
Feval,  had  made  a  great  sensation  in  Paris,  Thither 
went  Fechter,  accompanied  bj^  John  Brougham,  who 
acquired  the  piece,  and  anghcised  it  under  the  title 
of 'The  Duke's  Motto.' 

Tliere  was  nothing  in  it  for  either  Plielps  or 
Montgomery,  but  Fechter  distinguished  himself  so 
highly  as  the  hero  tliat  the  play  (which  was 
admirably  acted  and  beautifully  mounted)  took 
the  town  by  storm,  and  was  played  for  the  entire 
season. 

275 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Result :  rows — rows,  and  nothing  but  rows  ! 

Row  No.  1.  Vining  left  at  a  moment's  notice, 
and  migrated  to  St  James's. 

Row  No.  2.     Walter  IMontgomery  followed  suit. 

Row  No.  3.  At  the  end  of  the  season  Fechter 
decided  to  do  "  Hamlet "  for  a  few  nights  and  des- 
patched his  trusty  emissary  Mr  Humphrey  Barnett 
to  ask  Phelps,  the  acknowledged  head  of  the  English 
stage,  to  do  the  Ghost  on  that  occasion ! 

Those  who  remember  Samuel  can  guess  the  re- 
ception accorded  to  that  modest  request :  suffice  it, 
that  Mr  Barnett  quitted  Phelps'  house  much  quicker 
than  he  entered  it,  and  was  really  thankful  to  escape 
with  a  whole  skin. 

Result:  loggerheads  and  a  lawsuit,  which  ulti- 
mately ended  in  a  compromise,  but  left  little  love 
between  the  htigants. 

However,  as  they  were  both  intimate  personal 
friends  of  mine,  I  succeeded  in  persuading  them  to 
meet  for  the  purpose  of  "burying  the  hatchet  and 
smoking  the  pipe  of  peace." 

When  they  met  Phelps  was  gi'im  and  growling 
and  Fechter  nervous  and  embarrassed,  but  '  Geria ' 
knew  Phelps.  In  their  fuvenalia  he  had  been  her 
Romeo  at  IMargate  and  Worthing.  Reade  and  I 
made  Fechter  at  home,  and  before  the  dinner  was 
half  over  the  belligerents  thawed,  and  by  the  time 
they  got  to  their  cigars  (which  Reade,  despite  his 
detestation  of  tobacco,  stood  hke  a  lamb ! )  they 
were  sworn  friends.  Their  experiences  were  rare 
and  unique ;  and  Reade  drew  them  out  with 
wonderful  facility,  for  upon  occasion  he  could  be 
as  good  a  listener  as  a  talker.  Altogether  this  was 
a  dehghtful  evening.  When  we  broke  up  Fechter 
confided  to  our  host:  'Ah,  M.  Reade,  he  is  a 
grand  old  man,  and  I  loafe  him  like  a  brother,  but 
entre  nous,  he  cannot  play  Hamlet ! ' 

On  the  other  hand,  as  he  got  into  his  cab, 
Phelps  grunted :  '  After  all,  John,  he's  not  a  bad 
sort  of  chap  for  a — a — Frenchman,  but  by —  !  he 
can't  play  Shakespeare  ! ' 

276 


xNOCTES   AMBROSIANiE 

Boucicault  came  to  dine  with  us  the  following 
Sunday,  and  was  in  his  most  genial  mood,  bubbling 
over  with  anecdotal  vivacity. 

Speaking  of  the  success  of  '  Arrah  na  Pogue,' 
he  said :  '  All's  well  that  ends  well,'  but,  be  jabers ! 
poor  '  Arrah '  had  a  near  squeak  for  her  life  in  Dublin. 
I'd  devised  a  kind  of  Irish  Meg  Merrilees  for  Sam 
Emery  which  nearly  cooked  the  piece  and  sent  it 
to  blazes.  Then  there  was  a  little  comedy  part 
for  Sam  Johnson  which  was  no  use  and  it  had  to 
go  too.  In  fact  I  had  to  put  the  back  where  the 
belly  was,  and  the  belly  on  the  back,  and  turn  the 
whole  thing  inside  out.  But  I  saw  the  strength 
as  well  as  the  weakness :  I've  nailed  the  one  and 
knifed  the  other. 

Even  then  the  play  wouldn't  have  been  what 
it  is  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Vining.  When  I  read  it 
to  him,  he  said,  '  Right  as  rain  ! — save  that  it  wants 
a  fillip  to  the  last  act.  By  Jove ! '  he  bin-st  out, 
'I've  got  it! — got  it  in  the  Theatre  too!      Do  you  Ifr 

remember  that  wretched  "  Golden   Daggers  "  thing      ^^j:^ 
that  Ned  Yates  did  for  Harris  and  Fechter  ?     Well,     ^  {^ 

we've   got   tlie   three   sinking   bridges   (cost   five   or  ^ 

six    hundred    pounds    and   only  used    for    a    week)  ,^-gt>t,  ^^ 
here !  ^  here    under     our    feet  1       I'll    go    and    see     "'    •     ^^^ 
Lloyd  this  moment  and  arrange  to  work  'em  into      ""^     \  ** 
your   escape.      This   effect,  and   a   song  for  Arrah, 
and  there  you  are,  my  boy  ! '  um^   I 

'And   there    you   were! — all   there! — delightful,      ^^^.^ 
admirable,  perfect ! '  I  interjected. 

'  That's  very  kind  of  you,  dear  boy !  But,  of 
course,  I  needn't  tell  you  no  actor  can  be  a  comedian 
until  he's  been  a  tragedian.  You  should  see  my 
Hamlet.  The  part  has  never  been  played  yet — and 
never  will  be,  till  I  play  it.  Then,  as  to  Shylock — 
talk  about  'the  Jew  that  Shakespeare  drew' — wait 
till  you  see  mine  ! ' 

'  Billy  Farren  was  of  your  way  of  thinking, 
Dion,'  interjected  '  Geria.'  '  One  night  at  the  Hay- 
market  I  was  sajdng  something  civil  about  Grand- 
father   Whitehead.     '  Grandfather    Wliitehead  ! '    he 

277 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

roared.  '  Rot !  Lear  is  my  part — but  that  ass  of  a 
Webster  don't  see  it.  Talks  about  Macready — to 
me! — to  me! — William  Farren  !  Of  course  "Mac" 
is  a  passable  melodramatic  actor,  but  Lear  should 
be  a  king  —  and,  beged !  I  am  a  king,  and  no 
mistake ! ' 

'  Alfred  Wigan,'  said  I,  chiming  in,  *  was  equally 
modest.  When  I  first  met  him,  at  Bath  and  Bristol, 
he  blandly  remarked :  '  Your  Shylock  and  Hamlet 
are  both  wrong,  hopelessly  wrong !  You  make 
Shylock  too  old,  and  really  too  atrociously  blood- 
thirsty for  anything  in  human  nature ;  while  as  for 
your  Hamlet,  he  is  too  colloquial — too  young ! 
Hamlet  is  a  man,  not  a  boy.  You  make  him  too 
like  Romeo  in  the  tragic  parts,  and  too  like 
Mercutio  in  the  lighter  moods.  You  lack  ballast, 
sir,  ballast ! ' 

'  Better  lack  ballast  than  brains  ! '  snapped  Bouci- 
cault.  '  Bah  !  The  infernal  flunkeyism  of  that  tuft- 
hunting  bounder  and  his  precious  '  I^eonora '  with 
her  *  dear  Duchess '  and  '  our  darling  little  Queen ' 
always  puts  my  back  up.  Of  course  he's  all  right  in 
his  Frenchmen  and  his  niminy-piminy  half-begotten 
walking  gentlemen,  but  when  it  comes  to  Shake- 
speare— Bosh !  What  do  you  think  the  beggar  had 
the  cheek  to  say  to  me  during  the  rehearsal  of  '  The 
Corsican  Brothers  '  ?  '  Dion,'  said  he,  '  don't  you 
think  there  is  a  fine  opening  for  a  tragedian  now 
that  'Mac'  has  retired?' 

*  How  about  Kean  and  Phelps  ? '  I  inquired. 

'  Oh,  they're  mere  agricultural  nobodies.  No,  sir ; 
the  hour  has  come  and  awaits  the  man,  and  I — yes, 
I — ahem  I  flatter  myself  that  my  Shylock  will  open 
the  eyes  of ' 

'  Shut  up,  you  are  an  idiot !  said  I ;  and  that 
ended  the  conversation.' 

'  But  not  his  aspirations,'  I  replied,  '  for  he  did 
try  his  hand  at  Shylock  in  Liverpool  the  other 
day.  Evidently  it  opened  his  eyes,  for  he  hasn't 
repeated  the  experiment.' 

'  None   of  you,  though,'  interposed   Reade,   '  are 

278 


CHARLES   MATHEWS   AS   lAGO  I 

*  in  it '  with  Charley  INIathews,  who  solemnly  assured 
me  the  ambition  of  his  life  was  to  play  lago, 
Mephisto  and  Chateau  Renaud.' 

'  And  very  well  he'd  have  done  'em,'  remarked 
Boucicault.  'At  one  time  when  Kayne — I  mayne 
Kean — was  about  to  throw  me  over,  we  were  within 
measurable  distance  of  doing  '  The  Corsicans '  at  the 
Lyceum  with  Charley  for  Chateau  Renaud  and 
myself  for  the  Twins.' 

'  In  the  burlesque,  Dion  ? '  inquired  '  Geria,' 
demurely. 

'  No,  madam,  in  mine  ! ' 

*  What !  you7^  burlesque  ? ' 

'  No,  no  ;  of  course  not !  In  the  raal  thing — I 
mayne  the  real  thing.  The  novelty — the  ghost — 
— the  melody — the  masquerade — the  fight.  We  are 
both  splendid  swordsmen ;  and  he's  not  half  a  bad 
actor  in  sayiious,  I  majaie  serious,  business.  Ever 
seen  him,  .John,  in  '  The  Chain  of  Events,' '  Returned 
from  Portland  '  or  *  Black  Sheep '  ? ' 

'  In  all.  I've  seen  him  in  '  The  Day  of  Reckon- 
ing '  too.' 

'  At  the  Lyceum  ? ' 

'  No ;  at  Manchester,  where  they  guyed  him  off 
the  stage.' 

'  The  dirty  bla'guards  ! ' 

'  I  went  round  to  condole  with  him.  '  Ha, 
ha ! '  laughed  he,  '  you  tragedy  Jacks  always  take 
things  seriously.  You  don't  understand  the  meaning 
of  this  sibillation :  it's  merely  a  tribute  to  genius  ! 
Wait  till  you  see  my  lago.  Come  and  play  Othello 
for  my  benefit.  I'll  bet  they'll  be  packed  like 
hemngs  in  a  barrel,  and  the  pit  will  rise  at  us  and 
pelt  us ' 

'  With  flowers  ? ' 

'  No  ;  brickbats,  dear  boy  ! ' 

Next  day  I  called  at  Portland  Place  to  present 
Boucicault  with  a  miniature  I  had  picked  up,  at 
a  curiosity  shop  in  Harrogate,  of  his  God-father, 
Dionysius  Lardner,  remembered  now  chiefly  through 

279 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Thackeray's  atrocious  caricature  in  'The  Yellow- 
pkish  Papers'  (and  a  notorious  divorce  case  in 
which  he  figured  as  a  gay  Lothario),  but  who  was, 
notwithstanding,  editor  of  the  Encyclopedia,  and 
a  man  of  conspicuous  abihty. 

'  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was  '  codding '  you  last 
night  when  I  talked  of  playing  Shylock  ? '  said  Dion. 

'  Oh  dear,  no  !  I  can  quite  understand  the  mor- 
tification of  a  man  of  your  mark  being  condemned 
everlastingly  to  make  the  groundlings  laugh.' 

'  That's  just  it !  I  am  raally — I  mayne  really — a 
tragedian,  condemned  by  hard  fate  to  grin  through  a 
horse  collar,  and  to  pick  up  tricks  from  forgotten 
pantomimes.  Now,  look  here  ! ' — and  he  showed  me 
a  model  of  a  splendid  dramatic  effect  which  he  had 
designed  for  an  American  drama  entitled  "  Belle 
Lamar,'  founded  upon  the  Civil  War,  and  afterwards 
produced  in  New  York. 

By  touching  a  spring  at  the  moment  of  an  ex- 
plosion the  scene  tumbled  to  pieces,  discovering  an 
animated  tableau  of  a  battlefield,  cavahy,  infantry, 
artillery,  banners,  etc. 

'  That's  the  end  of  the  third  act :  ever  see  any- 
thing like  that  before  ? '  he  inquired. 

'  Never ! ' 

'  Well,  it  is  a  trick — merely  a  single  trick  designed 
by  Clarkson  Stanfield  for  the  comic  business  of  one 
of  Macready's  Pantomimes.  You  know  more  than 
most  of  'em,  but  see  what  an  infant  you  are !  You 
boys  of  to-day  who  didn't  see  Mac's  productions 
have  no  idea  what  you  lost.  That  is  why  I — I  who 
saw  them  all — should  like  to  try  my  hand  on  one 
or  two  of  the  great  parts  to  show  how  they  ought 
to  be  done.  If  I  five  long  enough  I'll  have  a  shy  at 
Louis  the  Eleventh.  I  will,  by  Jove  !  Such  a  part  I 
Ever  see  it  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I  saw  Ligier  in  Paris,  and  Charles  Kean's 
first  night  here.' 

'  I  was  in  Paris  at  the  time  of  its  first  production. 
Charley  and  Ben  Webster  used  to  go  night  after  night 
and  glare  at  each  other.     They  were  neither  of  them 

m 


DION'S   PARTHIAN   DART 

very  pious,  but,  'pon  my  sowl ! — soul  I  mayne — I 
b'lieve  aich  prayed  every  night  that  the  other  might 
be  dhroA\Tied  on  the  way  home,  that  the  sur\'ivor 
might  have  the  first  shy  at  Louis  in  London.  Oh, 
yes  ;  Kayne — I  mayne  Kean — is  right  enough,  but 
wait  till  you  see  me ! ' 

I  never  had  that  good  fortune  ;  but  '  Boucy '  re- 
mained steadfast  to  his  purpose,  and,  years  afterwards, 
actually  did  play  Louis  in  New  York,  assisted  by  his 
son-in-law  John  Clayton  as  Nemours ;  and  his  son 
Dion  as  theHDauphin.  I  feel  assured  the  perform- 
ance must  have  been  an  excellent  one,  but  the 
pecuniary  result  was  not  equal  to  its  deserts. 

Soon  afterwards  Dion  'moved  over,'  emitting 
from  his  deathbed  a  Parthian  dart  in  the  bitter 
apothegm :  "  The  world  is  a  barbarous  monster  and 
forgets ! ' 

If  the  world  has  really  forgotten  the  hours  of 
unmixed  delight  and  delicious  emotion  it  owes  to  the 
most  accomplished  dramatist,  and  most  brilliant  Irish 
comedian  of  his  epoch,  then  it  is  a  barbarous  monster 
indeed.  But  that  is  scarce  likely,  so  long  as  a 
family  of  brilliant  comedians  remains  to  remind  it 
that  the  author  of  "  Arrah  na  Pogue "  is  also  the 
author  of  Nina,  of  Eve,  of  Dion,  and  of  Aubrey 
Boucicault. 


281 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  NEW  CUT 

Mortified  at  the  Failure  of  "Dora"  and  the  "  Double  Marriage" 
Reade  resolves  to  "quit  the  loathed  Stage/'  but  claims  the 
Privilege  to  change  his  Mind  and  seriously  contemplates 
building  a  Theatre  in  Sloane  Street^  or  buying  one  in  Holborn 
—  He  breaks  an  Appointment,  and  writes  a  characteristic 
Letter — Arthur  Reade  describes  "  Uncle  Charles's  Exploits  at 
Ipsden — Egeria  and  the  Writer  pay  a  Visit  to  the  SuxTcy  and 
to  the  Victoria  —  An  Adventure  at  the  Vick  —  The  classic 
Drama  of  "Sweeny  Todd" — A  Play  within  a  Play — Romeo 
and  Juliet — Turn  out  the  Lights  and  drop  the  Curtain 

Disappointed  and  mortified  by  the  failure  of  "Dora" 
and  "  A  Double  Marriage, "  Reade  timied  his  back 
for  the  second  time  upon  his  beloved  hobby,  and 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  fiction. 

The  stage,  however,  has  a  fatal  fascination  for  its 
votaries.  Hence,  after  a  few  weeks'  spell  at  the  bench, 
he  summoned  me  to  town  on  important  business  in 
which  we  were  mutually  interested — no  less  than  the 
building  a  theatre  in  Knightsbridge,  or  purchasing 
one  already  existent  in  Holborn. 

Upon  arriving  at  the  Tavistock  at  four  o'clock 
one  summer  morning  seven-and-twenty  years  ago, 
I  found  the  following  characteristic  note: — 

'  Sorry  I  can't  meet  you  to-morrow  as  promised. 
A  sprightly  young  American  has  just  swooped  down 
on  me  with  an  introduction  from  my  old  friend  Field 
of  Boston. 

Though  only  two-and-twenty  and  pretty  as  a 
picture  she  is  alone  and  unattended.     On  Thursday 

282 


A    SPRIGHTLY  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

she  starts  for  Paris.  She  proposes  to  '  do '  the  Ville 
Lumiliiere  in  three  days,  then  off  to  Switzerland, 
thence  up  the  Rhine,  taking  a  smell  at  St  Mark's 
and  the  Venetian  Canals  e?2  i^ovte,  and  finishing  with 
the  Eternal  City  in  a  fortnight. 

What  a  blessing  is  the  light  -  heartedness  of 
youth !  Were  1  half-a-century  younger  I  would 
escort  her  myself ;  but,  alas  1 

'  Age  with  his  stealing  steps 
Hath  clawed  me  in  his  clutch  ! ' 

and — well — my  fair  young  friend  knows  her  way 
about,  and  she  has  extorted  from  me  a  promise  to 
take  her  to  Oxford  to-morrow,  and  show  her  the 
lions,  such  as  they  are. 

'  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man '  —  no, 
woman,  I  mean  —  and  as  I  am  sure  she  will  prove 
an  interesting  study,  I  shall  have  to  devote  at  least 
a  couple  of  days  to  the  young  hussy. 

When  I  have  diagnosed  her,  and  packed  her  off 
to  Paris,  I  must  move  on  to  Wallingford ;  where 
brother  Ned  who,  I  think  I  told  you,  has  taken 
Ipsden  from  brother  Bill  and  has — I'm  getting  mixed 
here— Who  has— Bill  or  Ned?  Why,  Ned,  to  be 
sure. 

Well,  you  know — no,  you  don't !  —  you  players 
'  never  know  nufFen,'  except  your  blessed  bard  who — 
although  he  was  a  player— knew  everything  on  the 
face  of  God's  earth,  and  a  lot  of  things  that  are  not 
on  it,  nor  of  it. 

Well,  of  course,  sweet  Will  knew  that  the 
shooting  always  begins  in  September — I  suppose 
they  used  bows  and  arrows  and  matchlocks  in  those 
days.  Whatever  they  used,  you  may  take  your  oath 
he  knew  all  about  it — for  was  he  not  a  poacher— the 
prince  of  poachers  ?     Now  I  dearly  love  a  poacher — 

'  For  it's  my  delight  on  a  shiny  night, 
In  the  season  of  the  year. 

The  season  of  the  year,  my  boy  ! ' 

and,   entre   nous,  one   of  my   reasons   for   going   to 

283 


RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

Wallingford  is  to  foregather  with  our  own  particular 
poacher,  Slaughter.  Dear  old  Jack !  The  Squire 
used   to   send    him   to    '  do   time '   occasionally,  but 

he (I'm   getting   more   mixed   than  ever.      Oh, 

confound  grammar!  It  was  only  made  for  fools.) 
Grammar  or  no  grammar,  Jack  doesn't  bear  malice, 
for  he's  a  right-down  good  fella,  and  is  always  glad 
to  see  '  Massa  Charles.' 

'  Let  me  endeavour  to  be  coherent. 

'  Ned  has  invited  me  to  have  a  shy  at  the  birds. 
I  shall  be  away  for  a  week  or  ten  days,  and  shall  be 
glad  if  you  can  stay  till  my  return.  The  rest  will 
do  you  good,  for  you  are  a  glutton  at  work,  and 
are  working  too  hard.  Remember  you  can't  burn 
the  candle  at  both  ends,  or  if  you  do,  it's  sure  to  go 
out  in  the  middle  ! 

'  Of  course  if  you  can't  stay  I  shall  have  to  come 
down  to  you  when  I  get  back. 

'  But  you  will,  you  must,  stay,  for  the  Duchess 
is  all  alone,  and  counts  on  you  to  keep  her  company 
while  I  am  away.  So  cut  your  caravanserai  (is  it 
ai  or  y?)  and  send  your  traps  down  after  breakfast 
to  Albert  Gate. 

'  Dinner  will  be  ready  at  eight,  which  wdll  leave 
you  a  long  day  for  your  '  gels,'  your  swells,  and  your 
idiotic  brother-managers.  Bah !  how  I  hate  the 
brainless  brutes !  Vining  and  you  are  the  only 
decent  chaps  of  the  whole  gang. 

'Wire  Laura,  that  she  may  expect  you,  and 
prepare  accordingly. 

'  How  you  two  will  '  meg ' !  what  yarns  you  will 
spin,  and  what  reams  of  copy  will  be  lost  to  the 
world,  and  to  yours  ever,  C.  R. 

*  By-the-by,  you  must  spare  a  night  to  go  to 
the  Surrey.  There  is  a  nondescript  thing  yclept 
a  burlesque  there,  with  a  lot  of  rough-and-tumble 
honest  fun,  some  bright  music,  and  two  or  three  good 
voices.  There  are  also  three  princes,  boys — 'gels' 
I  mean.     No  ;   not  '  gels ' — goddesses  !     Such  faces  ! 

such  figures  1 — such — such !     Then  there's  a  '  gel,' 

284 


ARTHUR   READE   LOQUITUR 

a  real  gel,  with  arms  bared  to  the  shoulder,  'such 
arms,  Jack' — such — but  go  and  judge  for  yourself. 

'  Apropos  you  ought  also  to  go  to  the  '  Vick ' 
while  you  are  in  the  neighbourhood.  There  are  two 
gels  there  worth  seeing :  one,  a  fat  little  lump  of  a 
thing,  named  L^^dia  Foote,  with  eyes  like  lodestars 
and  the  A'oice  ofa  nightnigale ;  the  other,  a  sprightly 
young  imp,  wild  as  an  unbroken  colt,  said  to  be  a 
daughter  of  Harry  Farren. 

'  Better  take  Laura  with  you  to  keep  you  out 
of  mischief  I ' 

What  became  of  that  sprightly  young  party  from 
Boston  I  never  heard ;  but  my  friend  Arthur  Reade, 
has  been  kind  enough  to  furnish  me  with  an  account 
of  Uncle  Charles's  doings  at  Ipsden,  at  or  about 
that  time. 

Arthur  Reade  loquitur 

'  My  uncle's  old  friend  and  mine,  John  Coleman, 
has  asked  me  to  supplement  his  recollections  of  my 
Uncle  Charles,  by  some  personal  experience  of  his 
visits  to  Ipsden ;  and  I  do  so  with  pleasiu-e. 
My  first  recollection  of  uncle  was  his  joining 
the  family  party  at  St  Alban's  House,  Regency 
Square  in  1856,  when  my  father  (Edward  Anderton 
Reade,  C.B.,  acting  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
N.W.P.,  and  the  first  man  to  enter  the  town  of 
Agra  during  the  Mutiny  in  1857),  after  twenty- 
eight  years'  service  in  India,  came  home  on  six 
months'  furlough,  bringing  my  mother  and  my  three 
younger  sisters  with  him. 

Uncle  Charles,  wlio  was  fond  of  bathing  and  a 
fine  swimmer,  was  anxious  his  nephew  should  acquire 
that  manly  accomplishment,  and  used  to  take  me 
on  his  back  into  deep  water,  and  then  let  me  shift 
for  myself.  He  frequently  took  us  to  the  Theatre, 
and  in  liis  care  I  saw  my  first  pantomime  at  Brighton, 
which  was  based  on  the  story  of  Lord  Lovel ;  the 
part  of  the  amorous  hero  being  enacted  by  ^Ir  Fred. 

285 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Dewai',  M^ho  afterwards  became  so  well  known  as 
Captain  Crostree  in  Burnand's  famous  burlesque  of 
*  Black-ey'd  Susan '  at  the  Royalty. 

When  my  father  retired  from  the  service  he 
rented  the  family  estate  at  Ipsden  from  his  elder 
brother  William,  and  when  the  shooting  came  round 
Uncle  Charles  paid  his  annual  visit,  and  was  always 
a  welcome  guest. 

He  was  veiy  fond  of  children,  and  we  were  very 
fond  of  him.  After  dinner  we  invariably  dragged 
him  to  the  piano  and  made  him  sing  to  us  "  Lashed 
to  the  Helm,"  and  "  How  shall  I  get  married  ? "  two 
songs  I  have  never  heard  anyone  else  sing,  nor  have 
I  met  anyone  who  ever  did.  They  were  senti- 
mental ;  but  "  The  Great  Mogul "  was  his  comic 
effort,  and  was  always  embellished  with  a  little 
dramatic  effect. 

We  sometimes  intruded  on  him  in  order  to  see 
his  'illumination,'  as  he  termed  it.  He  wi-ote  with 
from  eight  to  twelve  candles  ranged  round  the  table 
in  a  semi-circle.  These  candles  and  the  candlesticks, 
which  were  '  short  and  fat,'  and  made  of  wire,  he 
always  brought  with  him. 

I  don't  remember  his  ever  using  a  harsh  expres- 
sion, but  when  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  us  he  used 
to  look  round  sternly,  then  we  knew  we  were  not 
wanted,  and  cleared  out. 

He  was  fond  of  sport,  but  was  a  sportsman  of  the 
old-fashioned  kind,  and  very  nervous.  So  much  so, 
that  a  brother  of  mine,  who  had  a  tendency  to 
excitability  and  was  apt  to  flourish  his  gun  about, 
had  to  retire  to  a  distant  part  of  the  field  when  uncle 
was  bent  on  a  day's  sport.  He  was  a  capital  shot ; 
and  his  stories  of  the  days  when  he  traversed  the 
fields  of  Ipsden  as  a  boy  were  very  interesting.  But 
as  he  walked  over  them  in  our  time  he  was  prone 
to  fall  into  a  reverie  occasionally ;  and  more  than 
once  I  have  seen  the  birds  get  up  close  to  him 
without  his  noticing  them,  and  the  keeper  would 
have  to  shout  'mark'  in  extra  high  tone  to  attract 
his  attention. 

286 


LEO   AT   SPORT   AND   PLAY 

One  day  the  spring  of  his  powder  -  flask  was 
broken  (it  was  in  the  days  of  nuizzle  -  loaders), 
and  so  he  reverted  to  a  practice  of  his  boyhood — 
namely,  of  canying  powder  loose  in  one  pocket, 
and  shot  loose  in  the  other,  and  loading  with  a  clay 
pipe ! 

On  wet  days  his  favourite  game  was  battledore 
and  shuttlecock  in  the  entrance-hall.  He  was  a  first- 
rate  croquet  player,  and  on  non-shooting  days 
devoted  himself  to  giving  the  youngsters  of  the 
family  a  lesson  in  the  game. 

My  father  con\'erted  one  of  the  meadows  at 
Ipsden  into  a  cricket  ground. 

On  one  occasion  the  \'illage  club  was  one 
short,  and  we  pressed  L^ncle  Charles  into  the 
service. 

Everyone  remembers  his  cloth  boots  with  kid 
tips  and  his  baggy  pantaloons.  A\"ell,  he  wore 
them  on  this  occasion,  and  a  remarkable  and  grot- 
esque figure  he  looked  when  he  took  off  his  coat 
and  went  to  wicket.  He  went  in  last  and  was  out 
in  twelve  runs,  the  Ipsden  Club  wmning  with  a  few- 
runs  to  spare.  INIy  father  went  to  congratulate  him, 
whereupon  he  said  in  a  solemn  way :  'vl  am  still 
'not  out'  Twenty  years  ago  I  made  fifty-two  and 
was  '  not  out '  for  ^laudlen  !  " 

AVhen  fixed  in  town  1  was  frequently  invited  to 
Albert  Gate,  and  many  a  pleasant  hoin*  I  passed 
there — that  is.  when  he  was  disposed  to  be  com- 
municative. At  times,  however,  his  eccentricity  and 
taciturnity  were  remarkable.  On  one  occasion  I 
happened  to  repeat  the  hackneyed  aphorism  that 
'  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.'  '  Bosh  ! '  he  blazed 
out.  '  A  ridiculous  fallacy !  Can  you  recount  one 
single  incident  in  real  life  which  has  not  been 
anticipated  by  fiction  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I  can,'  I  replied.  '  I  have  seen  with  my 
own  eyes  a  railway  train  wrecked  by  a  collision  with 
an  elephant  which  at  the  same  moment  was  wrecked 
and  killed  by  the  train  I  Show  me  an}i:hing  hke  that 
in  fiction ! ' 

287 


RAIS^DOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

*  I  can't,'  he  growled,  '  so  count  two — one  to  you 
and  another  to  your  blessed  elephant ! ' 

I  have  alluded  to  his  taste  for  music.  He  was 
fond  of  the  divine  art,  but  only  that  of  the  old 
masters.  Handel  he  placed  on  a  pedestal  over  and 
above  every  other  musician.  One  day  our  conversa- 
tion had  for  its  subject  the  capacity  of  women,  and 
I  asked  him  to  come  and  hear  Madame  Neruda.  He 
required  a  deal  of  persuasion  Hbut  ultimately  came, 
thanks  to  an  in^dtation  from  our  dear  old  friend 
Arthur  Chappell.  JNIadame  Neruda  and  her  three 
famous  coadjutors,  Mesdames  Ries,  Zerlini,  and 
Piatti  played  one  of  Mendelssohn's  quartettes. 
Uncle  was  attracted  by  the  lovely  slow  movement, 
but  the  beauties  of  the  other  movements  didn't 
impress  him  in  the  slightest  degree.  After  the 
concert  was  over  he  simply  said :  "  I  should  like  to 
have  heard  them  play  'The  March  of  the  Men 
of  Harlech.' 

I  suppose  that  was  the  first  and  last  time  he  ever 
attended  a  '  Monday  Pop.' 

One  evening,  however,  I  met  him  in  the  street, 
and  he  carried  me  off  there  and  then  to  a  music  hall 
at  Knightsbridge  !  He  appeared  to  thoroughly  enjoy 
some  of  the  "turns,"  especially  one  given  by  a  female 
vocalist,  upon  whose  graceful  action  and  undoubtedly 
good  voice  he  waxed  quite  eloquent.  I  left  him 
more  than  ever  fully  persuaded  that  genius  is  always 
tinged  with  eccentricity.  Yet  how  kind  a  heart  he 
had  !  The  first  winter  I  was  in  England  I  was  laid 
up  with  bronchitis.  He  called  frequently,  and  used 
to  bring  me  all  sorts  of  deUcacies.  When  1  got 
better  I  tried  to  thank  him ;  he  replied :  '  Don't  talk 
nonsense,  but  play  me  a  bit  of  Handel,  my  boy.' 

As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  get  out  I  called  on  him, 
and  found  him  with  a  pile  of  manuscript  before  him 
and  a  large  open  Bible  on  the  desk.  He  was  then 
preparing  his  letters  on  ambidexterity.  '  Can  you 
tell  me,'  said  he,  "  any  one  of  your  acquaintance  who 
could  use  his  left  hand  as  well  as  his  right  ? " 
In  reply  I  mentioned  the  famous  cricketer,  JMr  Sam 

288 


APPEAL   TO   JUPITER  JUNIOR 

Linton,  of  Christchurch,  Oxford,  who  came  down  to 
my  old  school,  Haileybmy,  with  the  Free  Foresters, 
to  play  a  cricket-match,  and  much  surprised  us  boys 
by  the  facility  with  which  he  returned  the  balls  from 
his  position  at  long-leg  with  either  his  left  or  right 
arm,  according  to  the  side  it  came  from.  For  the 
rest  of  the  season  it  was  the  fashion  at  Haileybury  to 
practise  ambidexterity. 

Many  persons  will  doubtless  remember  Uncle 
Charles's  remarkable  letters  to  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph on  the  Staunton  case,  and  how,  avoiding  the 
moral  aspect  of  the  affair,  he  took  up  the  legal 
position  which  resulted  in  a  reprieve  to  the  wretched 
prisoners.  Well,  I  happened  to  meet  him  on  the 
very  day  the  decision  of  the  Home  Secretary  was 
announced,  and  remarked  that  Alice  Rhodes  had 
been  reprieved.  '  Reprieved  ! '  he  retorted,  somewhat 
angrily,  'they  ought  to  have  gone  down  on  their 
knees  and  begged  her  pardon.' 

Despite  his  prejudice  against  being  photographed 
I  induced  him  to  face  the  camera.  I  took  him  to 
Lombardi's  in  Pall  Mall  (since  dead)  to  see  some 
new  method  of  reproducing  pictures  in  colour  by 
means  of  photography,  and  very  remarkable  were  the 
results.  The  photographer  was  anxious  to  secure 
the  likeness  of  such  a  celebrity,  and  after  some 
demur  he  consented  to  sit,  provided  that  while  the 
operation  was  taking  place  I  would  sing  one  of  his 
favourite  songs,  "  Waft  her,  Angels."  I  agreed,  and 
an  admirable  picture  was  the  result  1 '  * 

Acting  on  Reade's  hint,  "  Geria "  and  I  resolved 
to  devote  a  night  to  the  Surrey  and  the  '  Vick,' 
taking  the  first  piece  at  one,  and  the  last  at  the 
other,  thus  kilHng  two  birds  with  one  stone ! 

The  piece  at  the  Surrey  was  all  the  Doctor  had 
described — but  the  acting  ?  oh  dear — oh  dear  ! 

'Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  Doctor's 
goddesses  ? '    inquired  Geria,  as  we  left. 

'  Fine  animals.' 

*  For  result  see  Frontispiece. 
T  289 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

'  Yes !  his  tastes  lie  in  that  direction,'  she  repUed, 
with  the  sHghtest  tinge  of  asperity. 

As  we  strolled  do\^^l  towards  the  New  Cut,  she 
continued  :  '  The  Surrey  was  quite  a  fashionable  place 
when  I  was  a  girl.  I  remember  my  sister  Carrie 
and  I  fighting  our  way  into  the  pit  to  see  T.  P. 
Cooke  play  William  in  '  Black-eye'd  Susan,'  which 
was  acted  for  an  entire  season.' 

'  AVho  was  the  manager  then  ? ' 

'  Elliston.' 

'  What ! — the  renowned  Robert  William  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  Father  knew  him  very  well,  and  I  remember 
hearing  him  say  that  Elliston  told  him  that  after  he 
was  banished  from  Drury  Lane  he  took  the  Surrey, 
opened  it,  and  carried  everything  before  him  on  a 
capital  of  half-a-crown,  which  he  borrowed  from 
Alfred  Wigan's  father  ! ' 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  *  Vick.' 

As  we  were  about  to  enter,  five  or  six  youthful 
Hooligan  Aristocrats  were  smoking  cutty  pipes  and 
evil-smelling  cigars,  and  cracking  salacious  jokes  in 
the  dimly-lighted,  dingy  vestibule. 

With  a  movement  of  disgust  Geria  turned  back, 
and  said : 

'  Call  me  a  cab.     I'm  going  home.' 

'Nay,  then,  I'll  go  with  you.' 

'  But  I  thought  you  wanted  to  see  those  girls.' 

'  I  can  see  them  any  night — but  I  can't  see  you 
home  every  night — so  come  along.' 

'  Ah  !  it's  aisy  seeing  you're  Irish,  ye  villyan,  so  it 
is  !  Oh,  well !  have  your  own  way,  Misther  Brian 
Boroo  !     A  lions  !  then,  for  the  slaughter-house  ! ' 

So  saying,  she  led  the  way,  and  two  minutes  later 
we  were  ensconced  in  a  private  box,  which  looked  as  if 
it  had  not  been  swept  for  a  month,  while  the  curtains 
apparently  had  not  been  washed  for  a  year. 

Then  the  chairs  !  There  were  four  cane-bottomed 
ones,  with  long  legs  and  high  seats.  One  of  them 
was  supposed  to  be  an  arm-chair,  because  it  had 
apologies  for  arms,  while  the  others  had  merely 
backs — such  backs  I 

290 


A   VISIT   TO   THE   -VICK" 

'  How  can  I  ever  mount  up  there  ? '  inquired 
Geria,  ruefully. 

'  I'll  help  you,'  and  I  lifted  her  up. 

'  Oh  dear !  oh  deary  me !  now  that  I  am  here 
where  am  I  to  put  my  poor  little  legs  ? ' 

'  I'll  show  you,'  and  I  turned  one  of  the  chairs 
down  horizontally  so  as  to  form  a  footstool. 

'  Thanks !  Good  gracious,  what  a  house.  The 
creatures  are  packed  hke  herrings,  and  oh  ! — odorifer- 
ous Arabia  !  '  An  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothecary  I ' 
P-r-r ! ' 

W^hen  the  band  struck  up  the  eii  trade  we  referred 
to  the  programme,  and  found  the  girls  we  came  to 
see  were  conspicuous  by  their  absence,  and  the  piece 
de  resist ajice  was  the  famous  classic  drama,  '  Sweeny 
Todd,  The  Barber  Fiend  of  Fleet  Street'! 

The  band  ceased,  and  a  hush  of  expectancy 
ensued.  One  of  the  young  Aristocrats  whom  we 
had  noted  in  the  vestibule — and  who  now  sat  im- 
mediately beneath  us  in  the  stalls  complacently 
puffing  his  penny  Pickwick — confided  to  a  chum : 
'  Sweeny's  in  fine  form  to-night !  I  see  'im  just  now 
wis  'is  cargo  aboard,  a-goin'  for  stage-door  like  a 
bull  at  a  gate.  He's  got  the  Jumps !  No  bloomin' 
fake  this  time,  laddy,  but  ,real  Jim-Jams  as  'ot  as 
they  make  'em.  Hell  polish  the  lot  of  'em  off  like 
old  boots,  you  bet.' 

At  this  moment  up  went  the  curtain,  discovering 
Mr  Sweeny  Todd's  mammoth  shaving-saloon.  For 
a  moment  the  stage  remained  vacant,  and  angry 
voices  were  heard  in  altercation  without.  Then  a 
man  of  six  feet  entered  from  the  door  in  flat,  followed 
by  a  woman  nearly  as  tall  as  himself.  As  they 
came  down  the  stage  the  house  rose  at  them,  the 
men  roaring  •  Go  for  the  beggar,  I'oll,  go  for  him  ! ' 
the  women  responding  '  Let  the  cat  have  it,  Bob ! ' 
'  Bob ! '  gasped  '  Geria'  as  she  recoiled  into  the 
corner  of  the  box,  behind    the  curtain. 

*  What's  the  matter  ? '   I  inquired. 

''  Oh,  nothing ;  I've  got  a  touch  of  cramp, 
that's  all.     Don't  mind  me." 

291 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Meanwhile  the  stars  bowed  their  acknowledg- 
ments to  their  admirers,  and  resumed  their  wrangle. 
They  were  really  an  interesting  couple  this  Mr 
and  Mrs  Robert  Heritage. 

The  man  was  slenderly  but  elegantly  formed. 
His  figure  might  have  been  that  of  a  youth  of  five- 
and-twenty,  but  the  Unes  upon  his  careworn  but 
expressive  countenance  told  another  tale.  He  would 
never  see  sixty  again.  His  eyes  were  coals  of  fire ; 
his  flexible  and  beautiful  hands  were  almost  trans- 
parent in  their  attenuation. 

The  woman's  ample  and  majestic  form  contrasted 
strongly  with  the  man's  fragility. 

As  they  glared  upon  each  other  her  beautiful 
eyes  seemed  to  catch  fii-e  from  his  scorching  glances. 

Nothing  but  the  terrible  earnestness  of  this 
incongruous  couple  could  have  held  together  the 
awful  rot  they  were  condemned  to  speak. 

I  gathered  from  this  delectable  stuff  that  they 
were  respectively  Mr  Sweeny  Todd,  proprietor  of 
Todd's  famous  penny  shaving- saloon  in  Fleet  Street, 
and  Mistress  Lucy  Lovatt,  proprietress  of  an  equally 
famous  pork  pie-shop  adjacent,  in  which  the  gentle- 
man was  a  partner.  As  far  as  I  could  understand 
their  animadversions,  there  were  no  "roses  and 
raptures "  or  any  erotic  nonsense  between  this  in- 
teresting couple.  On  the  contrary,  the  business 
was  run  on  strictly  commercial  principles,  the  gentle- 
man providing  the  pork,  the  lady  making  the 
pies  —  the  profits  being  equally  divided  between 
them. 

Evidently  a  rupture  had  occurred  in  consequence 
of  his  having  appropriated  more  than  his  share  of 
the  plunder,  and  having  neglected  to  provide  an 
adequate  supply  of  pork,  a  failure  which  she  attri- 
buted to  sheer  indolence,  inasmuch  as  all  he  had  to 
do  was  to  cut  the  throat  of  every  customer  who 
came  to  be  shaved,  and  shoot  the  body  down  a 
trap  into  the  bakery  below,  while  she  conscientiously 
fulfilled  her  portion  of  the  contract  by  converting  the 
"  cold  corpses "  into  pork  pies,  which  were  in  great 

292 


THE   BARBER   FIEND! 

demand  in  the  neighbourhood  in  consequence  of  their 
pecuHarly  dehcious  flavour. 

The  supply  of  pork  was  not  conunensurate  with 
the  demand  for  pies,  hence  JMrs  Lovatt's  ultimatum 
that  if  Todd  did  not  "  own  up "  she  would  "  drag 
him  to  the  Old  Bailey  and  denounce  him,"  and  his 
rejoinder  that  she  "  might  denounce  and  be  ! " 

Here  he  paused  significantly ;  then,  producing  a 
razor  and  stropping  it  on  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
blandly  intimated :  '  Look  here,  my  fair  friend,  if 
you  give  me  any  more  of  your  lip  I'll  polish  you  off.' 

At  these  words  there  arose  a  roar  from  the  gallery, 
as  if  in  recognition  of  an  old  familiar  friend,  and  a  yell 
of  '  That's  right,  go  for  her,  polish  her  off,  Sweeny  ! ' 

At  sight  of  the  razor  the  lady  beat  a  retreat, 
denouncing  him  as  a  cowardly  cut-throat,  and  Mr 
Todd  was  left  'monarch  of  all  he  surveyed.' 

Then  commenced  a  soliloquy,  or  rather  an  inter- 
minable series  of  soliloquies,  addressed  to  the  pit, 
in  which  the  soUloquiser  dilated  with  great  gusto 
on  his  prowess  in  the  gentle  art  of  'polishing  'em 
off,'  which  1  speedily  discovered  to  be  a  New  Cut 
'locution  for  cutting  a  throat. 

Apparently  the  Aristocratic  youth  had  been 
accurately  informed — Sweeny  had  got  'the  Jumps,' 
and  got  them  badly.  Evidently  this  was  his  great 
scene !  He  blurted  out  the  most  monstrous,  yet 
most  ridiculous  remarks,  pausing  every  now  and 
then  to  "poHsh  off"  some  hapless  wight  of  a  super 
who  accidentally  strayed  into  the  shaving  saloon. 

The  process  was  always  the  same. 

The  visitor  was  politely  conducted  to  a  seat 
situate  over  the  central  trap,  a  napkin  was  tucked 
under  his  chin  and  tied  to  the  back  of  the  chair. 
His  face  was  lathered,  the  brush  thrust  into  his 
mouth  or  his  eyes — this  business  was  every  now  and 
then  interpenetrated  with  some  fine  touch  of  weird 
pantomime,  some  subtle  irony,  or  some  tragic  horror 
which  made  me  laugh  one  moment  and  shudder  the 
next — then,  hey  presto !  shsh  slash  went  the  mur- 
derous  razor   across   the    victim's    throat,    the    trap 

293 


RANDOM    RECOLLECTIONS 

descended  with  a  rush  into  the  pie-shop,  while  the 
demon  barber  shrieked:  'I've  poHshed  him  off!' 
and  the  sympathetic  auditors  roared  in  responsive 
dehght:  'Good  old  Sweeny!  More  pork  for  Mother 
Lovatt !     Encore,  encore  ! ' 

During  all  this  time  Geria  sat  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  demented  creature,  half  tragedian,  half  clown, 
cutting  his  extraordinary  antics  before  the  seething, 
roaring  pit. 

Anything  more  grotesquely  horrible  or  more 
tragically  comical  it  is  impossible  to  conceive. 

I  spoke  to  Geria  once  or  twice,  but  she  didn't 
heed  me,  and  I  scarce  heeded  her ;  for  this  de- 
moniacal buffoon  held  me  spell-bound,  and  I  couldn't 
help  thinking,  if  his  amazing  power  of  hypnotising 
a  multitude  had  been  put  to  a  profitable  use,  what 
a  tremendous  tragedian  he  would  have  made. 

Unfortunately  for  me,  when  my  risible  faculties 
are  excited  they  are  uncontrollable,  and  the  situation 
was  getting  the  better  of  me. 

Restrain  myself  as  much  as  I  would,  I  couldn't 
help  letting  out  occasionally  ;  still  more  unfortunately, 
when  I  did  let  out,  it  was  always  in  the  wi'ong  place. 

Evidently  Mr  Todd  failed  to  appreciate  this,  and 
at  every  cachinnation,  however  slight,  he  gave  me 
a  baleful  glare,  his  irritation  getting  more  and 
more  pronounced  on  each  occasion. 

Matters  reached  their  culminating  point  when, 
stropping  his  razor  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  he  ad- 
vanced to  the  footlights  and  gravely  addressed  the 
pit  thus : 

*  Scum  of  the  earth,  I  wish  ye  had — hie — all  one 
hie— huge  throat  that  I  might — hie — polish  ye  off  in 
one  fell  swoop  ! ' 

If  my  life  had  depended  upon  it  I  could  contain 
myself  no  longer,  and  I  emitted  a  peal  of  laughter 
which  might  have  been  heard  in  the  Strand. 

It  was  like  the  spark  to  a  powder  magazine ! 

With  a  leonine  roar  of  '  Puppy,  puppy ! '  the 
maniac  sprang  over  to  our  box,  and  there  he  stood, 
erect   and   terrible   brandishing   his   razor,  while   he 

294 


COUP-DE-THEATRE 

glared  on  me  with  the  lurid  light  of  madness  flaming 
in  his  eyes. 

Upon  the  instant,  She  — '  Geria '  —  leaped  down 
between  us,  exclaiming :  '  Robert !  are  you 
mad  ? ' 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the  sight  of  her 
face  he  recoiled,  the  razor  fell  from  his  nerveless 
grasp,  and  in  a  choking  voice  he  gasped :  '  I  am ! 
God  help  me,  I  am !  And  'tis  you  who  have  made 
me  so.     You — oh,  Juliet !   cruel,  barbarous  Juliet ! ' 

Forth  from  his  mouth  spouted  a  torrent  of  blood 
which  he  ^  ainly  tried  to  stem. 

Plucking  at  his  throat,  wildly  beating  the  air 
with  his  bloody  hands,  he  uttered  a  last  despairing 
cry  of  '  Juliet ! '  Then,  with  a  crash  which  seemed 
to  shake  the  building  to  its  base,  he  fell  senseless 
on  the  stage. 

A  confused  murmur  of  voices  arose  before,  behind, 
on  every  hand  :  but  high  above  it  rang  out  a  woman's 
cry  of  agony,  as  Mrs  Lovat  (denuded  of  her  flaming 
crimson  sacque,  and  clad  in  one  simple  garment  of 
white)  rushed  on,  and,  with  a  wail  of  anguish,  snatched 
the  prostrate  body  to  her  bosom,  exclaiming: 
'  Robert,  my  darling,  my  darling  ! ' 

Then  the  curtain  fell  and  shut  them  from  our 
sight. 

This  was  not  acting,  it  was  a  terrible  reality. 

1'he  gods,  however,  evidently  regarded  it  as  a 
grand  covp-de-theatre,  and  they  roared  themselves 
hoarse  in  acclamations  of  delight.  The  young 
O'HooHgan  below  intimated  to  his  friend :  '  Didn't 
I  tell  yer  he  was  a-goin'  to  knock  'em  to-night? 
And  he  has  knocked  'em,  too,  and  no  flies — knocked 
'em  into  nine  holes  ! ' 

At  this  moment  Mrs  Lovatt  burst  into  our  box, 
pale  and  hvid.  '  Oh,  come  ! '  she  cried,  addressing 
Geria.  '  Come,  for  God's  sake  !  He's  dying — and 
he  can't  die  till  he  sees  you  I ' 

I  followed  them  on  to  the  stage,  but  did  not 
presume  to  follow  to  the  dressing-room  into  which 
they  disappeared. 

295 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

The  stage-manager  went  before  the  curtain.  I 
couldn't  hear  what  he  said,  but  I  could  distinguish 
that  there  was  an  awful  silence,  amidst  which  the 
band,  with  a  fine  sympathetic  instinct,  struck  up 
"The  Dead  March  in  Saul."  Then  came  the  muffled 
tramp  of  departing  feet.  As  the  sound  subsided 
into  silence,  the  lights  were  subdued,  and  presently 
the  curtain  was  uplifted  upon  the  ghastly  deserted 
house. 

There  was  no  confusion  anywhere :  nothing  but 
sadness  and  silence. 

The  carpenters  moved  about  on  tip-toe,  noiselessly 
'striking'  the  scene  and  shunting  it  into  the  'dock.' 
The  property-men  stowed  away  their  properties  in 
the  same  sepulchral  fashion ;  the  gasmen  extin- 
guished the  border,  the  side,  and  footlights,  then 
lighting  the  "  T  "  at  the  prompt  table,  left  the  stage 
in  semi-darkness.  Feeling,  as  I  always  do,  de  trop 
behind  the  scenes,  unless  actively  engaged  there,  I 
still  mustered  courage  to  address  the  prompter. 

'  Nothing  serious,  I  hope,  sir  ? ' 

'  I  hope  so,  too ! '  he  replied.  '  Poor  Bob  I 
He's  often  taken  that  way  when  he's  been  dining 
out.  He  knows  lots  of  nobs — old  schoolmates  at 
Eton,  and  pals  at  Oxford  —  who  never  think  of 
lending  him  a  tenner,  though  they  don't  mind 
standing  a  fiver  for  a  dinner.' 

At  this  moment  a  gentleman  entered  breathless 
from  the  stage  -  door,  followed  by  the  call-boy. 
'Order  a  cab,  my  man,  at  once — a  four-wheeler — 
we  may  want  it  for  the  hospital.' 

Then,  turning  to  the  prompter,  the  doctor  (for 
it  was  he)  continued :  '  Now,  White,  where's  poor 
Heritage  ?     Show  me  to  him  at  once  ! ' 

Having  conducted  the  doctor  to  the  dressing- 
room  opposite,  the  prompter  returned  to  me. 

Resuming  where  we  left  off,  I  inquired : 

'  Mr  Heritage  often  here  ? ' 

*  Oh,  on  and  off,  sir,  forty  years  and  more, 
ever  since  Abbot  and  Egerton's  time.  Used  to  be 
Abbot's  understudy  in  Romeo.      But  he  made  his 

296 


A    HAPPY   RELEASE 

great  coup  in  Miss  JMitford's  '  Charles  the  First.' 
Don't  know  who  originally  played  the  part,  but 
the  poor  chap  got  run  over  on  the  Bridge  one 
night,  then  Heritage  got  his  chance,  and  I've  heard 
Mr  Cathcart  say  (he  was  the  original  Oliver,  and 
a  fine  actor)  that  Bob  made  up  magnificently  and 
played  the  part  splendidly,  and  that,  if  he'd  only 
have  got  to  the  West  End  then,  he'd  have  made 
some  of  'em  '  sit  up,'  the  other  side  the  Bridge — 
but  he  never  got  there.  That  soured  him,  and 
spoiled  him ;  then  there  was  some  story  about 
a  woman  who  '  chucked '  him ;  anyhow  he  took  to 
his  'daffy,'  and  it's  been  all  down  hill  ever  since. 
Poor  chap  !  he  only  gets  a  look-in  now  and  then 
in  this  piece  which  he  hates — for  he's  a  gentleman 
(allays  a  gentleman ! ),  sir ;  while  she,  poor  dear,  is 
a  lady  every  inch  of  her,  and  she  detests  the  beastly 
thing  too — but  they  have  to  live,  sir,  and  hard  lines 
they  find  it,  I  can  tell  you.' 

By  this  time  the  call-boy  returned  and  knocked 
softly  at  the  dressing-room  door. 

'  Cab's  ready,  sir,'  said  he. 

After  a  moment's  pause  the  doctor  emerged. 
Taking  off  his  hat  he  said,  *We  shall  not  need 
it  now.' 

Instantly  every  head  was  bared. 

'  All  over,  su'  ? '  inquired  the  prompter,  huskily. 

*  Yes ;  burst  a  blood-vessel.  H^ppy  release  for 
the  poor  fellow — no  pain — no  trouble — passed  away 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips.' 

Then  the  doctor  M^hispered  the  prompter,  who 
whispered  the  property-man  and  the  carpenter,  who 
whispered  half-a-dozen  volunteers. 

They  all  slipped  noiselessly  away,  returning  pre- 
sently with  a  dozen  or  more  lighted  candles,  some 
sheets  and  cushions,  which  they  took  into  the  dressing- 
room. 

Simultaneously  the  crowd  at  the  back  sank  to 
their  knees. 

Thus  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  half-a-dozen  or 
more  of  the  principals  arose  and  noiselessly  entered 

297 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

the   dressing-room,   while    the    others   stole   silently 
away,  leaving  me  alone  on  the  bare,  empty  stage. 

By-and-by  Geria  came  out. 

'  Got  any  money  ? '  she  inquired,  abruptly. 

'  Yes  ;  how  much  do  you  want  ? ' 

*  What  have  you  got  ? ' 

'  Two  ten-pound  notes.' 

'  Any  gold  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  three  sovereigns.' 

'  (iive  me  the  two  notes  and  two  sovereigns. 
Thanks.'     And  she  went  back  to  the  dressing-room. 

Presently  she  returned,  accompanied  by  a  couple 
of  ladies. 

'  You  won't  leave  her,  will  you  ? '  she  inquired. 

'  Not  until  the  end,'  replied  one. 

*  Not  even  then,'  said  the  other. 

'  Thanks — good-night.     Now  take  me  home.' 

The  cab,  which  the  call-boy  had  ordered,  was  still 
waiting  at  the  door.  As  we  drove  away,  I  inquired : 
'  May  I ? ' 

'  No,  you  may  not !  Don't  speak !  and  let  me 
alone,  if  you  please  ! ' 

When  we  reached  Albert  Gate  she  went  straight 
up  to  bed,  without  even  so  much  as  a  good-night. 

I  had  a  bad  time  of  it  myself,  for  had  it  not 
been  for  my  beastly  idiotic  laughter ! 

When  I  got  down  in  the  morning,  Mary  brought 
me  a  message,  '  Mrs  Seymour's  compliments,  has  a 
violent  headache— would  I  mind  breakfasting  alone  ? ' 

I  was  not  in  a  lively  mood,  and  had  with 
difficulty  coaxed  down  a  cup  of  tea,  when  there  came 
a  telegram  from  William  Brough  summoning  me 
immediately  to  Hull. 

I  had  barely  half-an-hour  to  get  to  King's 
Cross ;  so,  scribbling  a  hasty  note  to  my  hostess,  I 
jumped  into  a  cab,  and  bowled  down  to  the  Great 
Northern  just  in  time  to  catch  the  Express. 

My  business  in  Hull  is  scarce  worth  recounting, 
except  for  a  remarkable  coincidence  which  occurred 
when  I  got  there. 

I  had  taken  the  new  Theatre  Royal,  the  lease  was 

298 


A  LAST  LOOK  AT  SWEENY  TODD 

waiting  for  my  signature,  and  William  Brough,  the 
author,  who  preceded  me  in  the  management,  was 
waiting  to  hand  over  the  keys  and  some  property 
which  I  had  purchased. 

Business  settled,  we  dined  together  at  Glover's. 
After  dinner  I  inquired  if  anything  was  going  on  in 
the  town. 

Brough  replied :  '  The  Queen's  Theatre  is  open, 
and  I've  promised  myself  a  treat  to-night.' 

'  What's  that  ? ' 

'  Nothing  less,'  he  replied,  '  than  a  performance  of 
the  immortal  drama  of  '  Sweeny  Todd.' 

*  No  ? ' 

'  Yes  !     Will  you  come  ? ' 

*  No,  thanks — besides  it's  too  late.  It  will  be 
nine  o'clock  before  we  can  get  there.' 

'  That  won't  matter ;  I  saw  the  first  two  acts  at 
the  Adelphi,  Liverpool,  a  fortnight  ago,  and  only 
want  to  see  the  last.  It's  splendid  fun  for  my  new 
burlesque.' 

After  the  experience  of  the  preceding  night  I  had 
httle  inclination  for  another  dose  of  '  Sweeny  Todd,' 
but  Brough  was  so  pressing  that  I  suffered  myself  to 
be  persuaded. 

AVhen  we  got  to  the  theatre,  which  I  remark,  en 
jjassa?it,  was  the  longest,  largest,  and  ugliest  in 
England,  we  found  the  place  crowded  and  the  piece 
in  full  blast. 

Fortunately  it  was  getting  towards  the  end. 
The  star  of  the  goodly  company  was  a  famous  actor 
from  the  minors,  who  absolutely  revelled  in  the 
banalities  of  the  bestial  barber. 

Catching  sight  of  us,  the  distinguished  metro- 
politan performer  went  straight  for  our  box.  It  was 
impossible  to  avoid  laughter ;  the  more  we  lauglied 
the  more  delighted  he  appeared  to  be.  He  flourished 
his  razor  and  chuckled,  roared,  yelled,  and  gloated 
over  every  victim  he  'polished  off,'  but  Nemesis 
was  at  hand ! 

Another  victim  was  about  to  be  immolated,  when 
lo !  just  at  the  psychological  moment,  a  melancholy 

299 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

low  comedian  shunted  the  ruthless  Sweeny  into  the 
fatal  chair,  jerked  the  ruffian's  hand  (with  a  razor 
in  it)  across  his  own  carotid  artery  as  he  descended 
into  the  pork  shop,  With  his  last  gasp  the  barber 
fiend  roared,  '  S'help  me  Bob— they've  polished  me 
off! ' 

What  an  inexplicable  mystery  is  this  dual  brain 
of  ours  ! 

Although  I  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  at 
this  brutal  buffoonery,  yet  at  the  self-same  moment 
I  saw  and  heard  and  shuddered  at  the  pathetic  horror 
of  the  night  before  ! 

'  There's  something  in  this  more  than  natural, 
if  philosophy  could  only  find  it  out ! ' 


300 


CHAPTER  IV 

'GRIFFITH  gaunt;  'FOUL  PLAY,'  AND  'PUT 
YOURSELF  IN  HIS  PLACE  ' 

"Griffith  Gaunt"  is  assailed  by  the  Critics  in  America,  and  a  Law- 
suit ensues  which  results  in  a  Verdict  for  Six  Cents  Damages — 
Reade  and  Boucicault  write  "Foul  Play"  for  the  Comhill, 
receiving  a  larger  Honorarium  than  had  ever  been  paid  before 
for  an  English  Novel — Authors  agree  to  differ  about  the 
Dramatisation,  and  each  provides  his  own  Version — Boucicault 
fails  at  the  Holborn — Reade  succeeds  at  Leeds  where  the 
Narrator  produces  it,  and  subsequently  takes  it  on  a  provincial 
Tour — He  suggests  to  Reade  the  Sheffield  Trade  Outrages  for 
a  Story  and  a  Play — They  go  to  Sheffield  for  Details — Extra- 
ordinary Experiences  in  the  Production  of  the  Play  at  Leeds, 
prior  to  its  Production  in  London — "Little  Coley" — "The 
Robust  Invalid  " — Last  Appearance  of  George  Vining 

In  1866  Reade  wrote  'Griffith  Gaunt.'  This  work 
originally  appeared  serially  in  the  Argosy,  and 
was  afterwards  published  in  the  orthodox  three- 
volume  form. 

It  was  pirated  right  and  left  in  America,  and  was 
assailed  in  the  most  virulent  manner  both  at  home 
and  abroad.  In  the  States  the  abuse  went  beyond 
the  bounds  of  decency,  especially  in  a  publication 
called  the  Round  Table. 

Leo  was  not  the  man  to  take  a  blow  without 
giving  a  thrust,  and  he  '  went '  for  his  detractors  in 
a  furious  article  entitled  '  The  Prurient  Prude.' 

Unable  to  get  at  his  assailant  personally  he  com- 
menced proceedings  against  the  pubhsher,  and  em- 
ployed (as  before  stated)  George  VandenhofF,  the 
tragedian,  to  read  the  story  to  the  jury,  who  awarded 
him  damages  for  the  munificent  sum  of  six  cents. 

301 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Even  this  rebuff  did  not  induce  him  to  lose  faith 
in  this  splendid  story,  which  he  forthwith  put  into 
dramatic  form,  as  will  be  shown  hereafter. 

The  relations  between  himself  and  Boucicault  had 
now  ripened  to  such  friendly  intimacy  that  it  occurred 
to  them  that  the  names  of  the  authors  of  "  The 
Colleen  Bawn "  and  of  "It  is  Never  too  Late  to 
Mend  "  were  names  to  conjure  with !  They  there- 
fore arranged  to  write  a  novel  first,  dramatise  it 
after,  and  sweep  both  England  and  America  with 
it.  The  novel  was  projected,  and  I  believe  the 
publishers.  Smith  &  Elder,  paid  for  the  serial  rights 
in  Cornkill  £2000,  the  largest  sum  ever  given  in 
advance  up  to  that  period,  in  this  country  for  a 
work  of  fiction,  with  perhaps  the  solitary  exception 
of  *  Romola.' 

In  its  narrative  form  '  Foul  Play '  was  highly 
successful.  Then  came  the  question  of  the  dramatisa- 
tion. Both  authors  took  opposite  views,  and  rode 
off  in  different  directions.  Boucicault  took  his 
version  to  the  Holborn  Theatre,  where  it  failed 
most  signally.  Reade  brought  his  adaptation  to 
me.  It  was  a  powerful  but  sprawling  play.  Strength, 
however,  it  had  in  abundance,  and  all  that  was 
necessary  was  to  lick  it  into  shape :  how  necessary 
this  process  was  may  be  surmised  by  one  illustra- 
tion. When  first  put  into  my  hands,  the  second 
act  was  in  seven  scenes :  I  put  them  all  into  one, 
suggested  the  whole  of  the  business  of  '  The  Cross- 
ing the  Line '  in  the  third  act,  and  transposed  and 
arranged  the  island  act  until  it  assumed  its  present 
form. 

The  drama  was  produced  during  the  first  season 
of  my  new  theatre  at  Leeds  with  immediate  and  pro- 
nounced success — a  success  which  Reade  was  generous 
enough  to  attribute  as  much  to  the  excellence  of 
the  acting  as  to  the  excellence  of  the  work. 

He  was  always  jealous  of  his  "words,"  and 
woe  betide  the  unhappy  wight  who  dared  to  tamper 
with  them.  It  required  great  diplomacy  to  induce 
him  to  accept  my  cutting  and  slashing  and  recon- 

302 


PREMIERE   OF   "FOUL   PLAY" 

struction  before  we  commenced  rehearsals ;  but 
when  we  got  on  the  stage  not  another  word 
would  he  allow  to  be  cut.  At  the  end  of  the 
fourth  act  he  had  allotted  me  a  speech  of  twenty 
tedious,  explanatory  lines  to  speak,  after  the  heroine 
had  quitted  the  stage,  and  I  was  left  alone  on 
Godsend  Island.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  pointed 
out  that  the  speech  was  an  anti-climax,  that  the 
explanation  could  be  deferred  to  the  next  act,  etc. 
'  My  composition,  my  boy ;  my  composition  I '  he 
exclaimed ;  '  besides,  it  is  the  articulation '  (a 
favourite  word  of  his)  'of  the  act.'  I  might  as 
well  have  whistled  against  thunder  as  argue  with 
him  while  he  was  in  the  imperative  mood ;  so  I 
said  no  more  about  it,  but  took  my  own  course. 
I  arranged  privately  with  the  prompter  to  '  ring 
down '  at  the  proper  climax  of  the  scene,  and  the 
result  was  as  I  had  anticipated — the  act -drop  fell 
amidst  a  perfect  tempest  of  applause.  We  had 
achieved  a  genuine  coup-de-thedtre,  and  the  audience 
'  rose  at  us ' ;  nor  would  they  suffer  the  play  to 
proceed  till  the  author  himself  bowed  his  ac- 
knowledgments, w^hen  they  cheered  him  again  and 
again.  Then,  panting  with  excitement,  while  tears 
of  joy  ran  down  his  cheeks,  he  absolutely  hugged 
me  with  delight,  as  he  exclaimed  :  '  Oh  !  you  traitor  ! 
— you  villain  I — you  young  vagabond  ! — you  were 
right  after  all ! — it's  beautiful ! — beautiful ! ' 

On  this  occasion  he  wrote  thus  to  INIrs  Seymour  : 

'  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  the  Ji?^st  call 
was  for  me. 

I  was  rather  reluctant  to  bow  before  an  actor 
had  received  ovation,  but  Coleman  came  and  made 
me,  and  certainly  I  never  was  received  with  such 
enthusiasm. 

The  men  stood  up,  and  the  ladies  waved  their 
handkerchiefs  to  me  all  over  the  house. 

I  thought  I  was  in  France.' 

When  the  play,  at  the  end  of  the  run  in  Leeds, 

303 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

was  transferred  to  Manchester,  one  of  the  great  un- 
known took  exception  to  the  representation,  where- 
upon the  author  took  up  the  cudgels,  and  responded 
after  this  fashion : 

To  the  Editor  of  the  ''Examiner''  and  "  Times.'' 

*  Sir, — The  Manchester  Examiner  of  June  25 
contains  some  remarks  upon  the  above  drama  which 
amount  to  this,  that  it  is  respectably  written, 
but  poorly  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  This 
summary  is  calculated  to  mislead  the  pubhc  and 
to  wound  artists  of  merit.  Permit  me,  then,  to 
to  correct  the  error. 

A  dramatist  is  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  his 
actors :  let  him  wTite  like  an  angel,  they  can  reduce 
him  to  the  level  of  Poor  Poll.  You  may,  there- 
fore, lay  it  down  as  a  mathematical  certainty  that 
a  drama  is  very  well  acted  if  it  holds  an  audience 
tight  for  three  hours  and  forty  minutes,  eliciting 
laughter,  tears,  applause,  and  few  or  no  yawns.  To 
go  into  detail,  which  is  the  surest  way,  Mr  Coleman 
plays  Robert  Penfold  with  the  variations  of  manner 
that  difficult  character  requires.  Easy  and  natural 
in  the  prologue,  he  warms  with  the  advancing 
action.  His  manner  of  dealing  with  the  difficult 
tirade  in  the  fourth  act  shows  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  his  art,  and  he  works  the  act  up  to  a 
chmax  with  a  fire  that  is  invaluable  to  me,  and 
rare  on  any  stage.  This  earnest,  manly  performance 
in  pathos  and  variety  is  unsurpassed  —  in  power 
unsurpassable. 

Miss  Henrietta  Simms  is  an  actress — young  in 
years,  but  old  in  experience — who  has  often  played 
leading  business  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre.  She  has 
presence  and  dignity,  yet  can  be  sprightly  without 
effort.  She  lacks  neither  fire  nor  tenderness ;  and, 
as  one  example  how  far  she  can  carry  those  qualities, 
let  me  point  to  four  speeches  she  delivers  in  the 
principal  island  scene.  They  follow  upon  Robert 
Penfold's  defence,  and   might   be   profitably  studied 

304 


LEO'S   DEFENCE   OF   HIS   COMRADES 

both  by  actors  and  critics.  But  elocution  is  only 
a  part  of  the  great  histrionic  art.  In  fact,  what 
reveals  the  true  artiste  at  once  is  his  dumb  play. 
Now  in  this  branch  of  her  art  Miss  Simms  has 
hardly  a  living  rival.  Let  anybody  who  cares  to 
test  this  statement  watch  the  changes  of  her 
countenance  when  Robert  Penfold  and  the  others 
are  speaking  to  her.  Let  him  observe  her  when 
Arthur  Wardlaw  places  in  her  hands  the  pearl  from 
Godsend  Island,  gradually  her  eyes  dilate,  her  lips 
part,  and,  long  before  she  speaks  the  commonplace 
line  I  have  given  her,  all  the  sweet  memories  of 
love  flow  into  her  face  and  elevate  it  with  a 
tenderness  that  has  really  something  divine.  Such 
strokes  of  genius  partake  of  inspiration,  and  are  the 
glory  of  that  enchanting  art  which  is  so  plentifully 
written  about  but,  alas !  so  little  comprehended. 
Now  for  the  smaller  parts,  which,  as  your  con- 
tributor seemed  to  think,  play  themselves.  I  know 
the  I^ondon  stage  by  heart,  and  there  is  not  an 
actor  on  it  who  can  look  and  play  Wylie  as  well 
as  Mr  Horsman  does.  Mr  Horsman's  performance 
has,  upon  the  whole,  breadth  and  geniahty.  Mr 
Edwards  is  a  tragedian,  who  plays  a  part  he  dis- 
likes to  oblige  us.  The  part  contains  few  of  those 
strong  effects  which  suit  him,  but  he  never  misses 
one. 

The  fourth  act  of  this  play  reveals  a  sailor 
lying  on  a  bank,  sick,  and  near  his  end.  He  is 
left  alone,  and  has  a  soliloquy  of  eight  lines.  With 
these  eight  lines,  and  the  business  that  belongs  to 
them,  an  actor  holds  a  large  audience  hushed  and 
breathless,  and  draws  many  a  tear  from  men  and 
women.  And  who  is  this  magician  ?  It  is  JNIr 
Royce,  the  low  comedian  of  JNIr  Coleman's  company. 
Is  it  usual  in  this  city  for  low  comedians  to  draw 
more  tears  with  eight  lines  than  some  tragedians 
draw  with  eight  plays  ?  If  not,  why  pass  over 
Mr  Royce  as  if  I  had  written  Mm  along  with  the 
lines  he  dehvers  so  exquisitely  ?  INIr  Chute,  a 
manager,  and  a  veteran  actor,  plays  the  little  part 
u  305 


RANDOM    RECOLLECTIONS 

of  Wardlaw,  senior,  to  oblige  me,  and  I  begin  to 
fear  he  plays  it  too  well.  The  purity,  the  quiet 
dignity,  and  gentlemanly  ease  with  which  he  invests 
it  are  too  rare  upon  the  stage  to  be  promptly  appre- 
ciated. All  1  can  say  is  that  since  Dowton's  time 
I  have  seen  nothing  of  this  class  so  easy,  natural, 
and  perfect. 

I  fear,  sir,  I  have  trespassed  on  your  courtesy ; 
but  I  am  sure  you  would  not  willingly  lend  your- 
self to  an  injustice,  and  I  even  think  and  hope  that, 
should  your  critic  revisit  the  theatre,  he  will  come 
round  to  my  opinion — viz.  that  "  Foul  Play  "  owed 
a  large  share  of  its  success  to  the  talent  and  zeal 
of  the  performers,  not  even  excepting  those  who 
play  the  small  characters. — I  am,  sir,  your  obedient 
servant,  Charles  Reade. 

Palatine  Hotel,  26th  June  1868.' 

At  this  distance  of  time  (leaving  myself  utterly 
out  of  the  question ! )  I  am  emboldened  to  say  that 
upon  its  first  production  this  was  not  only  one  of 
the  best  mounted  but  one  of  the  very  best  acted 
plays  of  this  generation. 

Despite  Reade's  elaborate  theories  about  art, 
in  reality  he  was  only  guided  by  actual  practical 
results.  I  have  frequently  known  him  take  grave 
exception  to  an  actor's  conception  of  a  part  at 
rehearsal,  but  if  the  offender  struck  fire  at  night 
the  end  justified  the  means,  even  if  his  views  were 
diametrically  opposed  to  those  of  the  author.  If 
from  some  adverse  circumstance — a  bad  house,  an 
east  wind,  an  unsympathetic  audience  —  the  play 
did  not  elicit  the  usual  modicum  of  applause,  then 
the  actors  were  stigmatised  as  "  duffers  " — "  duffers, 
sir,  who  have  defiled  my  composition,  mixed  ditch- 
water  with  my  champagne,  murdered  my  work." 
The  next  night,  perhaps,  there  was  a  good  house ; 
perhaps  the  wind  was  not  in  the  east ;  perhaps  a 
thousand  things :  at  anyrate,  if  the  play  was  re- 
ceived enthusiastically,  then  all  was  condoned  and 
forgiven.     The  popular  applause  was  music  to  him ; 

306 


THE  YOUNGER  OF  THE  SISTER  ARTS 

he  would  ensconce  himself  in  his  box,  turn  his  back 
to  the  stage,  and  as  the  audience  laughed  or  cried  he 
laughed  and  cried  with  them,  and  their  tears  or  cheers 
were  always  his  barometer  of  the  actor's  ability.  I 
have  often  heard  him  say  that  he  thought  the  great 
orator  or  the  great  actor  quaffing  the  full  wine  of 
applause,  crushed  in  one  moment  into  a  golden  cup 
and  drained  from  the  public  heart,  was  the  most 
enviable  of  human  beings. 

No  human  being,  however,  ever  presented  a  more 
extraordinary  mass  of  contradictions  than  this  man. 
If  anyone  assailed  him  he  dipped  his  pen  in  vitriol, 
and  poured  the  vials  of  his  wrath  upon  his  luckless 
adversary.  On  these  occasions  nothing  could  re- 
strain the  headstrong  rush  of  his  impetuosity,  nothing 
check  the  torrent  of  his  effusive  objurgations.  Yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  if  called  upon  to  advise  a  friend 
under  similar  circinnstances  he  not  infrequently 
exercised  quite  a  judicial  function,  and  was  the  very 
incarnation  of  mildness. 

A  remarkable  illustration  of  this  occurred  while 

we  were  at  X .     The  night  before  our  opening 

a  certain  pressman  had,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart 
and  the  bitterness  of  his  hate,  somewhat  indiscreetly, 
announced  over  '  his  pipe  and  his  pot '  his  intention 
of  '  slating '  us.  This  ornament  to  journalism  turned 
up  at  night  very  drunk,  and  absolutely  unable  to  get 
into  the  theatre  without  assistance.  He  slept  quietly 
and  composedly  through  the  greater  portion  of  the 
performance.  All  the  same,  the  next  day  we  got  the 
promised  '  slating.' 

Perhaps  no  man  has  been  more  fulsomely  flattered 
or  more  villainously  abused  than  I  have  been,  con- 
sequently I  have  learned  to  take  '  fortune's  buffets 
and  rewards  with  equal  thanks ' ;  but  this  onslaught 
(knowing  its  origin)  was  more  than  I  could  stomach, 
so  I  rushed  to  the  ink-pot,  and  wrote  a  letter  that 
was,  I  fear,  more  distinguished  by  vigour  of  a  itupera- 
tion  than  anything  else.  When  I  had  flnished  this 
precious  epistle  I  took  it  to  Reade.  He  read  it 
carefully,  and  said  very  quietly : 

307 


RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

'  Yes,  a  good  letter — very  good.  Couldn't  you 
make  it  a  little  hotter  ? ' 

'  I'll  try,'  said  I,  and  in  the  innocence  of  my 
heart  I  took  it  away,  and,  after  half-an-hour  spent 
in  polishing  it  up  and  embellishing  it  with  every 
epithet  of  scorn  and  contempt  in  my  vocabulary, 
I  returned  in  triumph. 

'  Not  hot  enough  by  half,  my  boy,'  said  he. 
'  Put  it  by  for  a  week,  then  read  it ;  put  it  by  for 
another  week,  and  then — put  it  in  your  scrap-book, 
or,  better  still,  put  it  in  the  fire.  Stop !  I'll  save 
you  the  trouble.'  And  he  put  it  in  the  fire  there 
and  then,  saying,  "now  it  is  as  hot  as  it  can  be 
made."     So  there  was  an  end  of  that  letter. 

Now  for  the  obverse  of  the  picture.  During  the 
run  of  '  Foul  Play '  in  Manchester  we  had  gone  to 
pass  Sunday  at  the  Theatre  House  in  York,  and 
on  our  way  back,  after  my  wont,  I  bought  all  the 
papers  and  magazines  I  could  lay  my  hands  on 
at  the  railway  station.  Among  them  was  a  copy 
of  a  satirical  journal  called  The  Mask.  Upon 
opening  it  I  found  a  loathsome  cartoon  of  Reade 
and  Boucicault  on  the  first  page,  and,  further  on, 
a  violent  personal  attack  on  both  authors,  accusing 
them  of  having  stolen  '  Foul  Play '  bodily  from  a 
French  drama  (by  an  author  whose  name  I  have  since 
forgotten)  called  '  La  Portefeuille  Rouge.'  Side 
by  side  with  the  Boucicault  and  Reade  composition 
was  printed  the  text  of  the  French  author.  As  I 
looked  up  I  saw  Reade  in  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  carriage  with  eyes  apparently  closed.  In  certain 
moods  he  had  a  facility  for  feigning  sleep,  just  hke 
a  cat  waiting  to  spring  upon  an  unfortunate  mouse. 
Holding  my  breath  I  furtively  tried  to  slip  The 
Mask  under  the  seat.  At  this  moment,  to  my 
astonishment,  he  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  said : 
'  John,  when  you've  done  with  that  yalloxv  magazine, 
hand  it  over  this  way.' 

I  handed  him  the  Cornhill  and  tried  to  hide  the 
other  behind  me. 

'  Not  this  ! '  he  said  :  '  the  other  yallow  thing  ! ' 

308 


THE  SHAM  SAMPLE  SWINDLE 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  so  I  gave  it  him.  He 
cast  a  disdainful  glance  at  the  caricature,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  in  silence ;  but  when  he  had 
finished  reading  the  acte  d'accusation  he  flushed  up 
to  the  eyes,  exclaiming :  'It  is  a  blasted  lie,  an 
infamous  calumny !  I  never  e\'en  heard  the  name 
of  the  infernal  piece  ! ' 

I  don't  think  he  had  ;  but  if  his  collahorateur 
had  not,  I  am  \'ery  much  mistaken.  Anyhow,  in 
the  Godsend  Island  scene,  he  had  hit  on  the  same 
idea,  the  same  incidents,  and  something  very  like 
the  same  words  as  the  Frenchman,  only,  unfor- 
tunately, the  Frenchman  had  hit  upon  them  first. 
The  "  undying  one "  was  too  old  a  bird,  and  too 
accustomed  to  poach  upon  other  people's  preserves, 
to  be  trepanned  into  correspondence  on  the  subject. 
Reade,  howevxr,  despite  his  good  advice  to  me,  rushed 
at  his  assailants  like  a  bull  at  a  gate,  and  vented  his 
rage  in  a  rabid  and  remarkable  paper,  published  under 
the  title  of  *  The  Sham  Sample  Swindle.'  It  is 
easier,  however,  to  pelt  one's  ad\'ersaries  with  hard 
words  than  to  refute  a  charge  of  plagiarism,  and  in 
this  uistance  it  must  be  admitted  the  'pseudony- 
munculee '  had  the  best  of  it. 

At  the  end  of  our  engagement  in  Manchester 
I  organised  a  tour  of  the  principal  theatres,  retaining 
all  the  artists  to  whom  Reade  makes  such  flattering 
reference  except  myself,  for  whom  I  obtained  an  ade- 
quate substitute  in  the  person  of  Mr  J.  F.  Cathcart, 
so  lonij  sub-lieutenant  to  Charles  Kean. 

Having  started  the  tour  successfully  in  Glasgow 
I  was  going  to  Paris  for  a  holiday,  and  called  at 
Albert  Gate  to  make  my  adieux. 

Here  was  another  '  wrong  to  Ireland.' 

It  was  idle  to  suggest  to  I^eo  I  needed  a  little 
relaxation  to  enable  me  to  superintend  half-a-dozen 
theatres  and  three  or  four  companies.  AVith  charm- 
ing insouciance  he  replied :  *  That's  nothing  to  me ; 
but  my  piece — my  piece  is  e\'erything — more  especially 
since  Dion  lias  failed  in  his !  I  want  to  show  him 
and  the  duffers  of  the  press  gang  that  I   can  write  a 

309 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

play  by  myself,  and — here  you  are  going  away — 
going  to  Paris  too  !  Leaving  the  ship  without  rudder 
or  compass — more  especially  without  the  captain  ! ' 
At  this  moment  in  came  a  telegram  from  Glasgow : 
'  House  £210 — piece  going  like  wildfire.'  Then  he 
complacently  remarked  :  '  Ah  well !  after  all  it  is  the 
piece — the  author  does  the  trick  !  If  you  see  Boucy 
be  sure  to  let  him  know  what  the  house  is  to-night 
— it  will  make  him  sit  up — won't  it,  Laura  ? ' 

'  Charles,'  replied  Geria,  '  you  are  the  vainest  man 
I  ever  saw.'  'John,'  she  continued,  'for  heaven's 
sake  let  this  maniac  have  that  telegram  to  show  at 
the  Garrick  to-morrow  and  then  he'll  be  happy.' 

On  returning  from  my  holiday  I  found  him  in 
one  of  his  periodical  fits  of  despondency.  The  failure 
of  Boucicault's  version  of  'Foul  Play'  at  the  Holborn 
was  as  fatal  to  us  as  to  him,  and  our  play  was 
practically  banished  from  London. 

A  few  months  later  Reade  wrote  me  he  had 
dramatised  '  Griffith  Gaunt,'  and  sent  me  the  play 
to  read. 

I  read  it  carefully,  found  an  abundance  of  good  stuff 
in  it,  but  it  was  constructed  so  loosely,  and  ended 
so  clumsily,  that  I  could  see  no  possibility  of  success, 
and  declined  to  produce  it ;  whereupon  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  produce  it  himself,  and  did  so,  first  at 
Newcastle-on-Tyne,  and  next  at  Manchester  in  1868. 

He  begged  me  to  come  and  see  it  at  Manchester, 
alleging  that  he  had  made  many  cuts  and  im- 
provements. I  did  see  it,  but  under  disadvantageous 
circumstances. 

Nothing  was  done  in  the  way  of  scenery, 
costumes,  or  appointments,  nor  did  the  acting  ever 
rise  above  mediocrity.  Miss  Avonia  Jones  (Mrs 
G.  V.  Brooke)  Avas  a  sensible  intelligent  actress^ 
rather  a  fine  woman,  with  a  pronounced  American 
accent,  but  too  frequently  flatulent  and  noisy,  and 
totally  deficient  in  the  refinement  and  distinction 
absolutely  essential  to  the  high-bred  Kate  Gaunt. 

310 


"GRIFFITH   GAUNT"  IN   MANCHESTER 

Mr  Henry  Sinclair,  from  Drury  Lane — the 
Griffith  Gaunt— gave  but  a  commonplace  imper- 
sonation of  this  Cumberland  Othello ;  while  George 
Rignold  was  characteristically  bucolic  in  Tom 
Leicester,  Gaunt's  half-brother. 

Despite  all  drawbacks  the  play  impressed  me 
with  its  tremendous  strength,  its  suggestion  of  strong 
emotional  power,  and  its  remarkable  possibilities  of 
being  made  a  great  popular  attraction  if  properly 
treated.  It  was  properly  treated  at  a  later  period, 
as  will  be  shown  in  its  proper  place ! 

Finding  ourselves  still  shut  out  of  London  with 
"  Foul  Play,"  and  firmly  beheving  in  its  attraction, 
it  was  arranged  between  Reade  and  myself  that 
I  should  go  to  America  to  produce  that  and  other 
plays. 

It  was  essential  for  me  to  take  ship  on  a  certain 
day  to  anticipate  the  action  of  transatlantic  pirates  who 
had,  as  usual,  stolen  a  copy  of  our  play.  My  baggage 
was  in  Liverpool,  my  berth  secured,  when  an  accident 
prevented  my  sailing.  1  had  to  attach  my  signature 
to  the  lease  of  one  of  my  theatres,  fortunately  for 
me  the  document  was  not  ready.  I  say  fortunately 
advisedly,  inasmuch  as  upon  the  production  of  the 
piece  in  New  York  a  curious  exchange  of  civilities 
took  place.  I  forget  the  exact  circumstances,  save 
that  I  know  revolvers  were  introduced  and  used 
pretty  freely,  and  two  or  three  people  were  killed 
and  others  badly  wounded.  On  the  whole  I  did 
not  regret  my  absence  on  that  interesting  occasion. 

Abandoning  altogether  the  projected  tour  to 
America  I  suggested  to  Reade  the  subject  of  the 
Sheffield  outrages  for  a  story,  and  a  drama  with  a 
part  in  it,  which  I  thought  especially  adapted  to 
my  method  and  resources.  He  accepted  the  sug- 
gestion, and  we  went  over  to  Sheffield  together, 
where  I  introduced  him  to  Mr  Leng,  the  courageous 
journalist  ('Holdfast'),  through  whose  initiative,  and 
the  indomitable  pluck  of  the  late  Mr  Roebuck,  the 
Parliamentary  Commission  was  obtained,  by  means 
of    which    the   perpetrators   of    the    atrocities   were 

311 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

unearthed.  Before  leaving  the  town  we  inter- 
viewed the  miscreant,  afterwards  introduced  into 
the  story  as  Grotait,  and  went  to  his  pubhc-house 
to  make  certain  sketches ;  we  also  visited  the  scenes 
of  the  various  outrages,  so  as  to  provide  ourselves 
with  local  colouring  for  the  future  drama.  On  its 
production  in  the  Co7'nhill  the  novel  '  Put  Yourself  in 
His  Place '  created  a  great  sensation :  but  the  drama  ? 

Our  intention  was  to  do  it  for  a  week  in  Leeds 
at  the  end  of  the  summer  season,  as  a  sort  of  public 
rehearsal,  then  to  take  the  Adelphi  and  produce  it 
there.  The  difficulty  was  that  it  involved  as  much 
expense  to  "  get  it  up  "  for  a  week  as  for  a  month 
or  two ;  but  that  could  be  got  over  by  utilising 
our  scenery  and  appointments  in  town.  Although 
the  drama  was  as  yet  unwritten,  w^e  had  arranged 
the  scenario,  and  I  took  my  scenic  artist  with  me 
over  to  Sheffield,  w^here  we  spent  a  week  in  making 
sketches  of  scenery. 

On  our  return  my  people  went  to  work  with  a 
will,  and  very  elaborate  preparations  were  made  for 
the  production. 

My  owTi  company  being  then  on  tour  with  '  Foul 
Play '  I  had  to  engage  people  from  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom. 

Reade  promised  to  be  ready  with  the  manuscript 
and  parts  for  the  first  rehearsal,  which  was  to  take 
place  a  week  previous  to  the  date  arranged  for  the 
production  of  the  play.  When  he  arrived  I  found, 
to  my  dismay,  that  he  had  only  completed  the  first 
act.  He  assured  me,  however,  that  he  had  got  it 
all  in  his  head,  and  that  he  could  get  it  out  as 
quickly  as  he  could  write  it  down.  We  commenced 
our  rehearsals,  and  he  stayed  at  home  to  work  at  the 
remainder  of  the  play.  Alas !  the  next  day  he  was 
taken  seriously  ill  with  a  virulent  attack  of  neuralgia 
and  toothache,  which  prostrated  him  during  the  greater 
portion  of  the  week.  It  was  not  until  the  following 
Monday  (the  day  on  which  the  play  actually  ought  to 
have  been  produced)  that  we  got  even  the  second  act. 

I  was  so  dissatisfied  with  the  state  of  affairs  that, 

312 


"PUT   YOURSELF   IN   HIS   PLACE  " 

foreseeing  nothing  but  failure,  I  was  disposed  (despite 
the  great  expense  ah-eady  incurred)  to  abandon  the 
idea  of  doing  the  piece  altogether ;  but  he  appealed 
to  me  so  strongly  on  the  subject  that  my  better  judg- 
ment gave  way,  and  I  weakly  yielded  to  his  ^dshes. 

The  position  was  most  disheartening  and  dis- 
tressing. It  was  now  Wednesday.  The  third  act 
was  a  bitter  bad  one,  and  there  was  neither  time  nor 
opportunity  to  revise  or  alter.  Under  no  circum- 
stances could  the  existence  of  the  piece  be  prolonged 
beyond  Saturday,  inasmuch  as  on  Monday  the 
Italian  Opera  Company  opened.  After  them  came 
Schneider  and  company,  with  the  "Grande  Duchesse," 
and  "  Orphie  aux  Enfers " ;  after  her,  Charles 
JMathews,  Phelps,  Sothern,  and  the  dog-days.  Al- 
together, it  was  a  bad  look-out.  Driven  to  despera- 
tion, I  announced  the  piece  for  Friday.  The 
company  were  letter  perfect  in  the  first  three  acts, 
and  by  half-past  eleven  on  Thursday  night  our 
preparations,  scenery,  music,  costumes,  etc.,  were  as 
complete  as  I  could  make  them. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  Reade,  pale  and  exhausted, 
came  with  the  last  act.  I  had  prepared  some  refresh- 
ment for  the  company,  and  requested  them  to  wait 
in  the  green-room  while  I  ran  through  this  act  with 
him.  I  then  called  everybody  on  the  stage,  and, 
holding  the  manuscript,  read  through  every  part, 
and  aiTanged  the  business  and  the  music  of  every 
situation  three  times  consecutively.  This  occupied 
us  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Dismissing  the 
rehearsal,  I  then  called  the  last  act  for  two  o'clock 
in  the  following  afternoon.  I  copied  my  own  part 
there  and  then.  The  prompter  and  copyist,  whom 
I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  send  home  hours 
before,  so  that  they  had  been  at  rest  all  the  evening, 
now  took  the  manuscript,  and  sat  up  all  night  to 
copy  the  other  parts.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing every  lady  and  gentleman  was  furnished  with 
his  or  her  part. 

And  now  occurred  a  circumstance  xtithout  parallel 
or  precedent  in  the  history  of  the  drarna  I     Notwith- 

313 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

standing  the  fatigues  and  anxieties  of'  the  preceding 
night,  and  the  lateness  of  the  hour  at  which  they 
quitted  the  theatre,  to  the  honour  of  the  company 
he  it  stated,  that  every  one  tu^med  up  letter  perject 
in  the  text  at  the  two-o'clock  rehearsal,  and  that 
night  '  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place '  was  produced 
textually  perfect,  and  ivithout  one  hitch  from  the 
lise  to   the  jcdl  of  the  curtain ! 

My  worst  anticipations  were,  however,  realised. 
Through  the  uncertainty  of  the  announcements,  there 
was  a  very  bad  house.  The  first  act  struck  fire ; 
the  church  scene,  in  the  second  act,  electrified  the 
audience ;  in  the  third  act  the  interest  drooped ; 
in  the  fourth  act  it  died  out  altogether,  like  the  ex- 
piring gleam  of  a  farthing  rush-light !  On  Saturday 
the  house  was  no  better,  and  the  verdict  of  the 
preceding  night  was  not  reversed.  The  play  was  a 
direful  failure,  and  involved  me  in  a  loss  of  upwards 
of  £600  on  the  two  representations,  as  well  as 
depriving  me  of  a  cherished  illusion,  as  I  had  hoped 
to  distinguished  myself  in  the  hero.  There  was  an 
abundance  of  splendid  material  in  the  work,  finely 
drawn  characters,  vigorous  fines,  exciting  incidents, 
but  it  was  put  together  so  hastily,  and  so  crudely, 
that  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  it  to  succeed. 

I  suggested  entire  reconstruction,  but  the  author 
would  not  hear  of  it.  Finding  that  he  remained 
obdurate,  I  resolved  to  have  nothing  further  to  do 
with  the  piece. 

i"^  £.  I  *     »tl(  '  Convince  a  man  against  his  will, 

r>/«r**3  *  JtShl  ^f^  fc*^*6^''       He's  of  the  same  opinion  still,' 

^..f^  --'laifid   Reade   had   an   unfortunate   faculty   of  believ- 

;  H:.!.^'*  ing  that  everyone  was  wrong — but  himself. 

I  had  got  up  '  Sardanapalus '  for  the  ensuing 
season.  On  the  second  or  third  day  I  received  one 
of  his  characteristic  letters. 

'  Now  you've  got  Byron  on  the  brain  (mind  I 
your  precious    '  Sardanapalus '  is   a  bitter  bad  play, 

314 


LITTLE   COLEY 

though  it  were  fifty  times  Byron ! )  I  suppose  you 
can  spare  me  a  few  of  the  original  people  for  '  Put 
Yourself  in  His  Place '  which  I'm  going  to  do  at 
the  ^Vdelphi  next  month. 

I've  secured  Neville  for  your  part,  and  he's 
going  down  to  SliefKeld"  to  learn  how  to  make  a 
knife,  which  is  more  than  you  ever  could  do  with 
all  your  cleverness  !  He'll  do  it  at  the  forge  in  sight 
of  the  audience,  and  you'll  see  how  that  will  '  knock 
em  I 

Apropos :  since  you've  no  longer  any  use  for 
the  forge  or  the  bellows,  or  the  other  'props,'  you 
might  let  me  have  'em.  I  want  also  that  inspired 
idiot  '  the  Rattener.' 

Let  me  have  the  prompt-book  with  all  your 
business  carefully  marked  (I'll  pay  copyist),  and  as 
I  was  unable  to  be  present  at  a  single  complete 
rehearsal  send  '  Little  Coley '  to  hold  the  book ;  he 
knows  your  business  by  heart. 

'  Wire  when  I  may  expect  him.' 

Apropos  of  '  Little  Coley ' 

A  good  many  years  ago  (I  can't  fix  the  precise 
date,  but  I  know  'twas  in  the  Fechter  era,  because 
I  was  on  my  way  to  dine  with  him,  John  Oxenford, 
and  Augustus  Harris  the  Elder  at  the  Theatrical 
Fund  dinner.  Freemason's  Tavern,  when  the  event 
took  place  to  which  I  am  about  to  recur)  I  had  been  a 
subscriber  from  its  commencement  to  a  weekly  journal 
of  advanced  views  called  the  Leader  (the  precursor  of 
the  Saturday,  and  of  all  the  present  race  of  sixpennies), 
and  stopped  at  Onwhyn's  news-shop  in  Catherine 
Street  (where  the  Gaiety  now  stands)  to  get  a  copy. 

As  I  entered,  the  shopman  behind  the  counter 
inquired  of  a  customer  in  front :  '  Are  you  going 
to  see  Hamlet  to-night  ? ' 

'  Who's  the  Hamlet  ? '  inquired  the  customer. 

'  Mr  Coleman.' 

'  Can  he  act  ? ' 

'  Evidently  he  thinks  he  can,'  replied  the  shop- 
man,  handing   his   customer   a   programme   headed, 

316 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

'  Cabinet  Theatre,  Kings  Cross.    Hamlet,  Mr  George 
Davenport  Coleman.' 

That  announcement  attracted  my  attention,  and 
I  kept  on  the  qui  vive  for  further  information  about 
my  namesake. 

A  few  weeks  later  I  saw  him  announced  at 
Sadlers  Wells  (then  under  the  management  of 
Miss  Fanny  Josephs)  for  Hamlet,  Romeo,  and 
Claude  Melnotte,  and  heard  it  rumoured  that  he 
was  not  only  financing  the  affair,  but  had  actually 
been  down  to  Knebworth  to  interview  Lord  Lytton 
with  the  view  of  inducing  him  to  wiite  another 
"  Lady  of  Lyons  "  to  enable  him  to  take  the  West 
End  by  storm. 

Apparently  his  lordship  did  not  rise  to  the  bait, 
and  the  would-be  Claude  disappeared  into  private  life. 

Having,  however,  once  rubbed  shoulders  with 
the  wings,  of  course  he  emerged  again. 

One  day  a  lady,  a  friend  of  mine,  intimated 
she  had  met  him,  that  he  had  shed  his  amateur 
wild  oats  and  resolved  to  begin  at  the  beginning — 
to  learn  his  business — and  that  he  wanted  an  en- 
gagement with  me,  inasmuch  as  seeing  me  enact 
Hamlet  had  inspired  him  with  the  desire  to  try 
his  hand  himself 

My  fair  friend  insisted  on  my  seeing  her  protege, 
and,  as  '  I  never  could  say  nay  to  Ioa  ely  woman,' 
I  complied  with  her  request. 

My  namesake  turned  out  to  be  a  lady-like  little 
chap  of  five  feet  nothing. 

He  told  me  frankly  that  he  had  squandered 
his  small  patrimony  in  his  experiments  at  the 
Wells,  and  that  it  was  imperatively  necessary 
to  obtain  employment  to  enable  him  Lo  obtain 
bread,  even  without  butter. 

He  was  so  ingratiating,  so  amiable,  and  so  modest, 
that  I  took  to  him  at  once ;  but  he  was  so  handi- 
capped by  his  voice  and  his  stature  that  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  procuring  him  an  engagement. 

At  last,  however,  I  succeeded  in  placing  him  in 
Birmingham. 

316 


liioto  hij  the  I.oiidim  :ifercoscouic  und  Pliiitdiji-Ojiliic  ( 


ADA   CAVENDISH 


MRS   .JOHN    WOOD 


A   FAITHFUL   FRIEND   AND   SERVANT 

The  '  gods '  there  are  somewhat  exacting,  and 
wouldn't  have  him  at  any  price,  as  I  found  to  my 
cost  soon  afterwards,  inasmuch  as  when  playing 
Guildenstern  with  me  the  barbarians  actually 
guyed  him  off  the  stage. 

I  next  procured  him  a  berth  in  Manchester, 
and  here  also  the  poor  little  chap  had  by  no 
means  a  rosy  time. 

In  consequence  of  his  modest  and  retiring  de- 
meanour the  saucy  young  sluts  of  the  ballet  chris- 
tened him  '  Doubts,'  and  to  his  great  annoyance 
the  sobriquet  stuck  to  him.  Out  of  evil,  however, 
cometh  good,  for  in  Cottonopolis  he  became  friendly 
with  Walter  INIontgomer^',  who  took  him  to  Not- 
tingham to  assist  in  the  management  of  the  New 
Theatre  there. 

Here  he  remained  till  the  end  of  the  season, 
when  he  came  to  me  as  my  secretary. 

Mr  Davenport,  for  so  we  called  him  at  Leeds, 
thinking  two  Colemans  (my  brother  and  myself) 
quite  enough  for  one  theatre,  was  not  even  distantly 
related  to  me,  nor,  never  having  heard  him  make 
the  slightest  allusion  to  the  existence  of  any  relatives, 
have  I  the  faintest  idea  as  to  who  they  were. 

He  had  an  extraordinary  knack  of  ingratiating 
himself  with  his  employers,  especially  those  of  the 
softer  sex,  of  which  he  was  a  profound  admirer, 
more  especially  those  of  opulent  dimensions.  He 
was  always  in  love,  and  his  affections  were  invari- 
ably fixed  on  a  woman  twice  as  big  as  himself, 
believing  firmly  that  "  in  joining  contrasts  lieth  love's 
deUghts." 

He  admired  Mrs  John  Wood  much  for  being 
a  fine  actress,  but  he  admired  her  more  for  being  a 
fine  woman.  He  admired  Ada  Cavendish's  Lady 
Clancarty,  but  he  adored  the  fair  Ada  herself. 
He  did  not  think  much  of  Mrs  Rousby's  acting, 
but  he  idolised  her  beauty !  And  when  at  Co  vent 
Garden  he  would  gladly  have  made  a  door-mat  of 
himself  for  the  stately  and  statuesque  Helen  Barry 
to  have  wiped  her  feet  upon. 

317 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Wherever  he  went,  even  though  the  conjunction 
occasionally  placed  him  in  the  most  ludicrous  posi- 
tions, he  was  sure  to  declare  on  to  the  finest  woman 
in  the  room. 

At  one  of  our  Christmas  Balls  there  was  a  lady 
of  such  gigantic  dimensions  I  dared  not  tackle  her. 
The  valiant  Coley,  however,  nothing  loth,  volun- 
teered to  be  the  man  in  the  gap. 

It  was  a  sight  for  gods  and  men  to  wonder  at, 
to  see  this  little  hop-o'-my-thumb  whirling  round 
and  round  in  the  arms  of  this  magnificent  mountain 
of  flesh,  and  iiTesistibly  suggested  the  idea  of  a 
shrimp  embosomed  on  the  breast  of  a  whale. 

This  was,  however,  only  one  side  of  Coley. 
On  the  other,  he  could  confront  an  army  of  unruly 
supers  or  a  refractory  corps  de  ballet ;  could  cajole 
a  rebellious  actress  or  coerce  a  bumptious  block- 
head of  an  actor  into  a  part  "  out  of  his  line " ;  he 
could  mollify  importunate  creditors ;  in  fine,  he 
could  be  all  things  to  all  men,  and  especially  to  all 
women.  He  was  attentive,  obliging,  true  as  steel, 
and  faithful  to  his  salt. 

A  vacancy  having  occurred,  he  begged  me  to 
take  him  on  the  stage  and  teach  him  the  rudi- 
ments of  stage-management,  which  I  did  to  the 
best  of  my  abihty,  hence  Reade's  desire  to  have  his 
assistance  at  the  Adelphi,  where  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Henry  Neville  and  Dion  Boucicault, 
both  of  whom  took  a  fancy  to  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  Adelphi  season  he  rejoined 
Walter  INIontgomery,  who  had  returned  from 
America,  and  remained  with  him  till  the  tragic 
termination  of  his  career. 

Shortly  afterwards  Boucicault  opened  Covent 
Garden  with  *'  Babil  and  Bijou,"  and  engaged  Coley 
to  assist  in  the  management.  Here  he  came  in 
touch  with  Dion's  '  noble  friend  '  and  partner,  who 
ultimately  took  the  Olympic  and  engaged  Henry 
Neville  to  manage  it,  retaining  Coley  for  the  front 
of  the  house.  Here,  in  his  turn,  he  introduced 
Charles  Reade,  which  led  to  Neville's  reviving  *  It  is 

318 


"SCUTTLED   SHIP  "   AND   "CLANCARTY" 

Never  too  Late  to  INIend  '  and  '  Foul  Play,'  renamed 
(in  order  to  dissociate  it  from  Boucicault's  failure 
at  the  Holborn)  '  The  Scuttled  Ship.' 

With  Neville  in  my  part,  and  Miss  Bella  Pateman 
in  that  of  JNIiss  Henrietta  Simms,  this  play  was 
received  with  great  favour. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  features  of  this 
revival  was  ^Irs  Seymour's  embodiment  of  Nancy 
Rouse,  this  being  her  last  appearance  on  the  stage. 

Another  work  of  Reade's,  entitled  *  Jealousy ' 
(adapted  from  Sardou's  comedy  '  Andre,'  which,  by 
the  way,  I  saw  at  Rouen  and  in  Paris,  and,  to  my 
thinking,  the  Rouen  rendition  was  much  the  better  of 
the  two  !)  was  also  successfully  produced  by  Neville. 

I  digress  here,  to  remark  that  Neville's  manage- 
ment at  this  period  was  signalised  by  the  production 
of  the  best  romantic  drama  since  '  The  Lady  of 
Lyons ' — viz.   Tom  Taylor's  '  Lady  Clancarty.' 

Some  of  the  parts  in  this  play  were  acted  on  the 
first  night  with  a  spirit,  a  life,  and  an  earnestness 
impossible  to  excel.  Notably  my  charming  friend, 
Ada  Cavendish's  splendid  and  pathetic  Lady  Clan- 
carty ;  Miss  Fowler's  piquant  and  delightful  Lady 
Betty  Noel ;  the  William  of  Orange  of  Mr  Sugden, 
then  almost  a  novice ;  the  admirable  impersona- 
tions of  Mr  ^^ernon  and  Mr  A^ollaire ;  the  terribly 
in  earnest  Scum  Goodman  of  Mr  G.  W.  Anson,  the 
jeiine  jjremier  of  Mr  Walter  Fisher,  an  accomplished, 
handsome  young  fellow,  (who  alas !  wrecked  his 
own  career  in  sight  of  port !) ;  and,  above  all,  the 
vigorous,  manly,  sympathetic  Clancarty  of  Mr  Henry 
Ne\dUe. 

Here,  too,  was  produced  Dennerry's  '  Two 
Orphans,'  memorable  for  one  scene  (the  garret) 
worthy  of  comparison  with  any  scene  ever  written. 

When  Neville  seceded  from  the  Olympic,  Coley 
managed  it  for  his  old  friend  P'aiiny  Josephs,  and 
when  she  retired,  he  migrated  to  the  Court,  which 
he  managed  for  John  Clayton  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  when  he  (Coley)  transferred  his  services  to 
Mrs  John  Wood,  which  brings  me  to  'Hecuba.' 
~~"        '""^^  ' '  319 


RANDOM    RECOLLECTIONS 

Not  having  seen  or  heard  anythmg  of  my  httle 
friend  since  I  was  at  Drury  Lane,  and  requiring 
his  assistance  in  the  verification  of  some  dates  in 
this  work,  I  wrote  to  him  the  other  day  and  found 
that  he  had  'gone  away  and  left  no  address.' 

Here  is  an  explanatory  note  as  to  the  cause  of 
his  silence  from  my  excellent  good  friend  Mrs 
John  Wood. 

The  Bungalow, 

Westoate-on-Sea, 
JVednesda^. 

"  Dear  J.  C— Your  letter  to  little  '  Coley '  has 
been  forwarded  to  me,  but  can  never  reach  him  now. 

He  had  been  very  ill  for  a  long  time  when  he 
came  here  for  the  good  of  his  health. 

Alas  !  he  came  too  late. 

The  dear  little  chap  gradually  got  worse  and 
worse,  till  the  end  came,  when  I  am  happy  to  say 
he  dropped  off  quietly  and  peacefully.  And  now 
'  Home  he's  gone  and  ta'en  his  wages.' — Yours,  etc. 

M.  W ." 

Of  all  his  employers  I  think  Davenport  had 
attached  himself  most  to  Mrs  Wood.  Hence  he 
was  extremely  fortunate  hi  having  his  last  hours 
solaced  by  the  kindly  offices  of  that  large-hearted 
and  generous  woman. 

We  sometimes  rub  shoulders  with  fate  as  she 
hurries  past,  and  to  go  up  one  street  or  down 
another  often  changes  the  current  of  a  life ! 

I  wonder  — '  how  I  wonder '  (as  Demetrius 
observes)  whether  this  little  gentleman,  who  for  so 
many  years  took  so  active  a  part  in  the  life,  business, 
and  pursuits  of  so  many  persons  of  more  or  less 
distinction,  would  ever  have  had  the  opportunity 
of  doing  so  had  I  not  accidentally  gone  into 
Onwhyn's  shop  that  night  on  my  way  to  dine  with 
Fechter  and  the  rest  at  the  Freemasons'  Tavern. 

Howsoever  that  may  be,  I  feel  sure  that  all 
those   who    had    the   advantage   of   his   advice   and 

320 


FREE  LABOUR  AND  ROBUST  INVALID 

assistance  will  appreciate  this  passing  tribute  to 
years  of  faithful  friendship  and  loyal  service  to  the 
writer  and  his  friends. 

Returning  to  'Put  Yourself  in  His  Place,' 
I  lent  nearly  all  the  original  cast,  and  with 
Coley's  assistance  the  play  was  produced,  May 
1870,  at  the  Adelphi  under  the  title  of  'Free 
Labour.'  Reade  assured  me  'twas  excellently  done, 
that  Neville  distinguished  himself  highly  in  my 
part,  and  actually  did  make  the  knife  (on  which 
the  author's  heart  was  set)  in  sight  of  all  Israel. 

Geria  however  assured  me,  in  confidence,  that 
the  short  life  of  the  play  was  anything  but  a 
merry  one,  that  Reade  was  continually  assailed 
v^th  anonymous  letters,  purporting  to  be  from 
gentlemen  of  the  proletariate  of  Sheffield,  threaten- 
ing to  blow  up  both  him  and  his  piece  ^^ith  dynamite. 

With  a  perseverance  worthy  of  a  better  cause 
he  held  on,  and  on  15th  June  attempted  to  strengthen 
the  bill  by  the  addition  of  '  The  Robust  Invalid ' — 
an  adaptation  of  Moliere's  immortal  work,  which  had 
long  been  a  fad  \dth  his  English  admirer. 

Five  acts  of  this  comedy  were  now  attached  to 
four  long  acts  of  "Free  Labour." 

To  give  eclat  to  the  occasion  George  \^ining 
was  engaged  for  Orgon,  IVIiss  Florence  Terry  for 
Louise,  JVIiss  Juha  Glover  (Edmund  Glover's 
daughter)  for  a  minor  part,  while  Mrs  Seymour 
was  the  Toinette.  Although  thus  admirably  acted, 
the  length  of  the  one  piece  killed  the  other,  and 
involved  the  author  in  a  loss  of  from  four  to  five 
thousand  pounds. 

That  was  the  coup -de -grace  to  'Put  Yourself 
in  His  Place,'  and  to  the  best  of  my  belief  that 
was  George  Vining's  last  engagement. 

Anyhow,  after  that  he  disappeared  altogether 
from  public  life,  and  I  knew  not  what  had  become 
of  him,  until  one  day  I  accidentally  cannoned  against 
him  in  Covent  Garden  Market,  and  he  insisted  on 
dragging  me  home  to  dine  with  him  at  his  mother's 
X  321 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

house  in  Highgate.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  the 
devotion  of  this  dear  old  lady  to  *her  boy.'  He 
was  still  'her  boy,'  this  great  strapper  of  half-a- 
century. 

That  summer  we  had  many  delightful  days  and 
nights  together. 

His  autumn  of  life  bade  fair  to  be  a  happy  one. 
He  was  devoted  to  a  charming  and  accomplished 
woman,  the  attachment  was  reciprocated,  a  day 
had  been  fixed  for  their  wedding,  when,  alas !  she 
was  stricken  down  by  some  mysterious  internal 
malady  and  died  in  a  few  hours. 

The  blow  which  struck  her  proved  fatal  to  him. 
His  mother  insisted  on  his  going  to  Gully's  hydro, 
at  Malvern.  In  obedience  to  her  wishes  he  went 
there ;  his  stay,  however,  was  of  short  duration,  he 
pined  for  home  and  mother,  made  his  way  back 
as  far  as  Reading, — and  there — yes,  there 

Good-bye,  old  friend — a  last  good-bye. 


322 


CHAPTER  V 

TWO  METROPOLITAN  MANAGERS 

Three  Novels  and  two  Plays  in  one  Year — Failure  of  "A  Terrible 
Temptation "  deteriorates  our  Author's  Value  —  "  A  Sim- 
pleton "  follows  suit  —  "  Shilly  Shally "  successful  at  the 
Gaiety,  leads  to  Feud  with  Anthony  Trollope  and  a  Lawsuit 
against  the  Morning  Advertiser  —  "The  Wandering  Heir" 
is  promptly  dramatised  by  the  Author,  and  produced  in 
Liverpool  with  Mrs  John  Wood  as  the  Heroine  and  is 
taken  on  Tour  —  Two  idle  Apprentices  make  Holiday  at 
York — Reade  becomes  Manager  of  the  Queen's  Theatre  and 
produces  "  The  Wandering  Heir,"  with  Ellen  Terry  as  the 
Heroine  —  It  is  acted  for  130  Nights  —  And  transferred 
to  Astley's  with  dubious  Success  —  The  Writer  becomes  a 
Metropolitan  Manager  —  To  his  dire  Mishap  exploits  an 
Eminent  Italian  Tragedian  and  drops  Thousands  of  Pounds 
in  the  Operation — Reade  takes  the  Writer  to  Oxford  prior 
to  his  Debut  in  Town  as  Henry  the  Fifth 

During   1870-2   Reade   wrote  no   less    than    three 
novels  and  two  plays. 

The  first  of  these  works,  "  A  Terrible  Temptation  " 
(published  in  CasselVs  Magazine  (for  1871),  got  him 
into  terrible  hot  water  at  home  and  abroad.  At 
home  there  was  a  row  with  the  editor,  who  ob- 
jected to  certain  details  of  the  work  and  insisted 
either  on  their  being  rewritten  or  eliminated ;  while 
on  the  "  other  side  "  (where,  as  usual,  the  story  had 
been  stolen !)  there  appeared  in  the  Toronto  Globe 
three  columns  of  vituperous  misrepresentation,  which 
Reade  attributed,  rightly  or  wrongly,  to  Mr  Goldwin 
Smith. 

Those  who  are  curious  in  the  'Amenities  of 
Literature '  will  find  the  author's  rejoinder  in 
*  Readiana '  (p.  279). 

323 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

For  vitriolic  vigour  this  epistle  excels  anything 
in  the  language. 

Unfortunately  Mr  Goldwin  Smith  was  not  alone 
in  his  animadversions. 

The  American  press  had  gone  for  '  Griffith  Gaunt,' 
but  it  slaughtered  '  A  Terrible  Temptation.' 

Home-made  critics  were  almost  as  bad,  and  the 
sale  of  the  book  was  ruined,  as  it  is  evidenced  by 
the  following  extract  from  our  author's  diary : — 

*  A  Terrible  Temptation '  has  been  decHned  by 
all  the  publishers  I  offered  it  to.  Smith,  with 
compliments,  says  he  is  afraid  to  publish  it. 

I  foresee  that  the  librarians  will  all  band  against 
it,  as  usual ;  and  at  fifty-seven  years  of  age  plenty 
of  hot  water  coming.  Well,  it  is  one  more  fight, 
that  is  all,  for  fight  I  must,  or  be  crushed  entirely. 
And  this  is  what  they  call  a  lucky  writer ! ' 

Yesterday  I  treated  with  Mr  Frederick  Chapman 
for  'A  Terrible  Temptation.'  He  gives  me  £600 
for  a  three  volume  edition  of  1500  copies.  Should 
this  be  exhausted,  fresh  arrangements  to  be  made. 
This  is  a  pitiable  decUne  on  former  sales.  He 
gave  me  £1500  for  limited  copyright  of  '  Griffith 
Gaunt.'  Bradbuiy  and  Evans  gave  me  £2000  for 
ditto  of  '  Foul  Play.' 

*  A  Simpleton,'  which  appeared  originally  in  serial 
form  in  London  Society  of  1871,  was  suggested  by 
Mrs  Seymour,  who  took  an  active  part  in  colla- 
boration, as  it  is  evidenced  by  the  following  extract 
from  a  letter  addressed  to  her: — 

*  Shall  go  to  work  at  once,  so  pray  send  me  some 
little  material,  no  matter  how  rough,  every  day. 

Jot  it  down. 
Fling  it  on  paper. 
Scenes. 
Observations. 
Single  lines. 

Make  a  heading,  '  Rosiana,'  of  detached  simple 
things  for  her  to  say  or  do. 

324 


A   SIMPLETON   AND  "SHILLY   SHALLY" 

Oh  dear!  I  feel  rather  old  to  have  to  work  so 
hard. 

Thanks  for  hint.  The  ladies  (once  enthusiastic 
schoolfellows)  shall  quarrel  in  the  auction  room,  and 
part  for  ever. 

But  can  you  not  remember  any  little  bit  of 
colour  you  have  seen  or  heard  in  auction  rooms — 
any  bit  of  Jew's  chaff — any  incident  ? 

If  so,  send  it  by  return,  or  it  will  be  too  late.' 

His  head,  and  Mrs  Seymour's  sagacious  advice 
drove  him  to  the  study,  but  his  heart  always  attracted 
him  to  the  stage  —  hence,  while  actually  engaged 
on  this  last  work,  he  cast  it  impatiently  aside,  and 
took  P'rench  leave  to  dramatise  Anthony  Trollope's 
'  Ralph  the  Heir,'  which  was  produced  at  the 
Gaiety  under  the  title  of  '  Shilly  Shally '  on  1st 
April   1872. 

This  production  was  a  source  of  great  trouble. 
Reade  and  Trollope  were  on  terms  of  friendly  in- 
timacy, but  the  latter  was  absent  in  Australia,  and, 
being  ignorant  of  his  whereabouts,  Reade  was  unable 
to  communicate  with  him.  It  must  be  counted,  how- 
ever, to  Reade's  credit  that  he  reserved,  and  offered 
to  pay,  his  collaborator,  half  the  fees  accruing  from 
the  representation  of  the  play.  On  his  return,  how- 
ever, Trollope  not  only  refused  to  accept  them,  but 
was  nuich  incensed  that  Reade  (who  had  always 
posed  as  the  champion  of  author's  rights)  should 
have  infringed  them  in  so  unceremonious  a  fashion. 

The  difference  was  accentuated  by  an  article 
in  the  Morning  Advertiser  which  alleged  that  the 
piece  was  indecent.  A  charge  of  indecency  was 
a  hard  pill  for  either  author  to  swallow.  Reade 
indignantly  repudiated  it,  and  brought  an  action 
for  slander,  recovering  £200  damages  and  costs. 

The  collaborators  were  both  singularly  irascible 
men,  hence  for  a  considerable  period  they  glared 
at  each  other  in  silence,  and  Reade  informed  me 
that   they  were   actually   wont   to   participate   in   a 

325 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

game   of  whist    at    the    Garrick   without    deigning 
to  speak  to  each  other. 

After  a  time,  however,  peace  was  proclaimed 
between  the  belligerents,  and  amicable  relations 
resumed,  a  circumstance  which  renders  TroUope's 
posthumous  attack  {see  his  Autobiography)  on  his 
old  comrade  somewhat  inexplicable 

The  publication  of  '  The  Wandering  Heir '  in 
a  Christmas  number  of  the  Graphic  yielded  a  large 
sum,  and  evoked  a  veiy  hot  controversy  with  the 
late  Mr  JVIortimer  Collins  and  his  accomplished  wife 
as  to  an  alleged  charge  of  plagiarism  from  Swift  in 
various  parts  of  the  story.  There  was  some  very 
hard  hitting  on  both  sides  in  reference  to  this 
matter.  When  his  honesty  was  called  in  question 
Reade's  sensibility  was  deeply  wounded,  and  his 
anger  was  unbounded ;  yet  I  have  reason  to 
know  that  he  afterwards  deeply  regretted  some  of 
the  strong  things  he  emitted  on  this  occasion.  His 
was  '  a  most  manly  wit '  and  he  was  pained  to 
*  hurt  a  woman.' 

Almost  immediately  after  the  publication  of  this 
story  he  dramatised  it.  As  usual,  the  London 
theatres  were  closed  against  him,  and,  being  occu- 
pied with  my  engagements  in  various  parts  of  the 
country,  I  could  no  longer  assist  him  as  was 
my  wont.  He  therefore  took  the  Amphitheatre  in 
Liverpool,  where  he  produced  the  piece  himself. 

At  his  request  I  came  o^  er  from  the  Isle  of  Man 
to  see  it.  Mr  Tom  Taylor  and  his  family  had  been 
staying  in  Douglas  for  the  season,  and  as  they 
were  returning  on  the  Monday  they  asked  us  to  stay 
and  accompany  them,  and  we  had  occasion  to  regret 
that  we  did  not  take  their  advice,  for,  when  they 
came  over,  the  sea  was  like  a  mill-dam,  while  we  un- 
fortunately had  a  most  awful  passage  :  a  ship,  with 
all  hands  aboard,  went  down  before  our  very  eyes  I 

When  at  length  we  got  to  port  Reade  met 
us  at  the  landing-place,  drove  us  to  his  diggin's, 
and  gave  up  his  o^\^l  rooms  to  us. 

326 


"THE   WANDERING   HEIR' 

After  dinner  we  went  to  the  play,  which  interested 
and  delighted  us. 

It  was  capitally  acted,  Mrs  John  Wood's  Philippa 
especially. 

Perhaps  she  was  a  trifle  too  plump,  too  ebuUient, 
and  too  knowing  to  realise  typically  the  gii'Ush 
Phihppa  ;  yet  what  splendid  art  it  was !  what 
depths  of  tenderness  lay  under  the  superstructure 
of  archness !  what  subhme  assurance  asserted  itself 
at  the  tip  of  her  saucy  nose !  what  wealth  of  fun 
lay  lurking  in  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  ready  "  to 
play  Bo-peep  and  burst  out  in  spite  of  her ! "  It  was 
worth  being  sea-sick  from  Douglas  to  Liverpool  only 
to  hear  her  say :  '  Parson,  please  buy  me  a  pair  of 
breeches  and  make  a  boy  of  me  ! ' 

After  the  run  of  the  piece  in  Liverpool  Reade 
organised  a  company  to  take  it  on  tour,  engaging 
Miss  Margaret  Brennan,  (an  accomplished  yoimg 
actress)  to  take  the  place  of  Mrs  Wood.  The  tour 
commenced  in  Nottingham,  where  he  invited  me 
to  come  and  stay  with  him  for  a  few  days ;  and  a 
very  jolly  time  we  had  of  it  out  of  the  theatre.  In 
it  he  was  still  doomed  to  be  unfortunate,  for  the 
houses  were  WTctched.  Subsequently  he  brought 
the  piece  and  his  company  to  Leeds ;  here  again 
he  was  disappointed,  so  was  I.  Anyhow,  it  was 
no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk,  so  I  proposed  that 
we  should  go  over  to  the  Theatre  House  in  York 
for  two  or  three  weeks. 

Dear  old  York  is  a  charming  city  at  all  times, 
but  in  the  summer  it  is  more  than  delightful.  We 
both  cast  care  to  the  winds,  and  gave  ourselves  up  to 
idleness  and  enjoyment.  In  the  few  brief  holidays 
of  my  busy  life,  I  have  always  felt  that  I  had 
broken  bounds,  like  a  truant  schoolboy,  and  that 
if  found  out  I  should  be  chained,  secured,  driven 
back  to  the  grindstone ;  and  I  verily  believe  this 
was  what  Reade  felt  at  that  time.  Certainly,  he 
was  the  biggest  boy  in  the  house,  always  a  jest  on 
his  tongue,  always  a  laugh  on  his  lips.  Day  by  day, 
we    explored   the    antiquities   of  the   city    and    the 

327 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

neighbourhood.  Then  there  were  driving,  boating, 
and  swimming.  In  those  days  he  stripped  Hke 
Hercules,  and  easily  knocked  me  out  of  time  in 
swimming,  though  in  walking  I  certainly  had  the 
best  of  it.  At  night  we  returned,  hungry  as 
hunters ;  and  so,  with  good  company,  good  fare, 
quaint  stories,  honest  mirth,  and  song,  the  joyous 
hours  sped  fast,  till  the  bell  of  the  old  minster 
reminded  us  that  it  was  time  to  go  to  "  by-by " 
if  we  meant  to  get  up  at  a  reasonable  hour  on  the 
morrow. 

The  days  passed  all  too  quickly,  he  had  to 
return  to  take  charge  of  his  company,  and  I  had 
to  go  somewhere  to  act — I  forget  where  now. 

The  night  before  our  departure  a  very  remarkable 
coincidence  occurred.  Strolling  along  in  the  moon- 
light, by  the  river's  bank,  he  told  us  a  terrible  story 
of  a  servant  of  his,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
married  to  a  morose  and  drunken  brute,  who,  when 
not  drunk  was  mad,  perpetually  ill-treating  her,  and 
starving  their  child,  a  winsome  little  chap  of  four 
or  five.  When  the  poor  soul  took  service  at  Albert 
Gate  she  left  the  boy  with  her  mother.  In  a  fit 
of  drunken  frenzy  the  ruffian  husband  took  the  child 
away.  Some  weeks  after  the  poor  little  fellow  was 
found  strangled  in  a  cellar  at  St  Giles's.  Suspicion, 
of  course,  attached  to  the  father,  but  he  had  dis- 
appeared and  no  trace  of  him  could  be  found.  The 
poor  mother  left  Albert  Gate,  drooped,  and  died 
of  a  broken  heart.  At  this  stage  of  this  awful  story, 
just  as  we  approached  the  archway  under  the  bridge, 
our  attention  was  attracted  to  a  strange  object  gently 
floating  up  and  down  in  the  water  under  the  moon- 
beams. It  was  the  face,  the  dead  face  of  the  man, 
the  very  man  we  were  actually  talking  about  at  that 
very  moment. 

Next  day  we  left  York. 

Up  to  the  very  last  Reade  regarded  this  little 
holiday  as  a  green  spot  in  his  life.  Only  a  few 
months  before  his  death,  after  a  fit  of  despondency, 
he    brightened    up    and  exclaimed :    'Ah    John !    if 

328 


"THE   WANDERING   HEIR  "   IN   TOWN 

we  could  only  recall  the  days  and  nights  at  York 
and  at  Lion  House  —  the  wit,  the  dalliance,  the 
health,  the  strength,  the  appetite,  the  happy  hours ! 
Ah  me  !  ah  me !  the  days  that  are  no  more !  " 

The  tour  of  '  The  Wandering  Heir '  still  con- 
tinued to  be  unsatisfactory.  The  want  of  attraction 
in  the  piece  Reade  charged  to  the  stupidity  of  the 
public.  He  became  quite  obstinate  on  the  subject, 
and,  to  prove  the  provincial  public  wrong,  in  1873 
he  took  the  Queen's  Theatre,  I^ong  Acre,  and  brought 
it  out  there,  engaging  ISIiss  Ellen  Terry  (vice  Mrs 
John  AVood  and  JNIiss  Brennan)  for  the  heroine,  an 
event  which  he  thus  records  in  his  diary : 

"  Ei.LEX  Terry. — A  young  lady  highly  gifted 
with  what  Voltaire  justly  calls  Ic  grand  art  de  plaire. 
Left  the  stage  for  some  years.  In  1873  I  coaxed 
her  back  to  play  Philippa  at  the  Queen's  Theatre, 
and  she  was  afterwards  my  leading  actress  in  a 
provincial  tour.  She  played  Helen  Rolleston  veiy 
finely  ('Foul  Play').  In  1875  engaged  to  play 
l*ortia  at  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Theatre,  where  her 
performance  was  the  principal  histrionic  attraction, 
the  Shylock  of  JNIr  Coghlan  being  considered  some- 
what weak  and  monotonous. 

She  is  an  enigma.  Her  eyes  are  pale,  her 
nose  rather  long,  her  mouth  nothing  particular. 
Complexion  a  delicate  brick-dust,  her  hair  rather 
like  tow.  Yet  somehow  she  is  beautiful.  Her 
expression  kills  any  pretty  face  you  see  beside  her. 
She  is  a  pattern  of  fawii-like  grace.  Whether  in 
movement  or  repose,  grace  pervades  the  hussy.  In 
character  impulsive,  intelligent,  weak,  hysterical — 
in  shoi-t,  all  that  is  abominable  and  charming  in 
woman. 

Dialogue 

*  Eelen  Terry. — ^And  who  is  your  leading  lady 
now— that   I   may  hate  her? 

Charles  Reade.— Miss  . 

Ellen   Terry    {rnbhing    her    hands). — Oh,   I'm 

329 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

so  pleased.     She  can  give  you  a  good  hiding.     She 
will  too ! ' 

Here  are  Reade's  last  words  about  the  fair  Ellen : 
•  A  very  charming  creature.  I  see  through  and 
through  her.  Yet  she  pleases  me  all  the  same. 
Little  duck ! ' 

And  these  were  her  last  words  about  him : 
*  Dear,  lovable,  childlike,  crafty,  gentle,  obstinate, 
entirely  delightful  and  interesting  Charles  Reade.' 

The  Tichborne  Claimant  affair  was  then  at  fever- 
heat.  The  resemblance  between  that  case  and  the 
case  of  James  Annesley  attracted  attention  to  '  The 
AVandering  Heir.'  The  play  caught  on  in  town, 
and  was  acted  upwards  of  130  nights, 

Leo  invited  me  to  come  up  to  town  to  see  it. 
It  was  admirably  done,  but  my  pleasure  in  the  per- 
formance was  somewhat  discounted  by  my  neighbours 
in  the  stalls,  a  hostile  and  illiterate  publisher,  and  an 
impudent  Irish  woman  of  uncertain  age  who  had 
tried  to  write  a  book  or  two  but  had  not  succeeded. 
This  Hibernian  hag  and  this  impudent  cad  kept  up  a 
running  fii-e  of  impertinent  comments  utterly  de- 
structive of  enjoyment. 

When  at  length  I  had  as  much,  and  a  little  more 
than  I  could  stand,  I  presented  my  card  to  the  lady 
and  gentleman,  whereupon  they  '  dried  up '  with  a  bad 
grace,  glaring  insolently  at  me  till  the  curtain  fell. 

Next  day  Reade  telegi-aphed  me  to  dine  with 
him  at  the  Garrick,  to  discuss  an  important  pro- 
posal, which  turned  out  to  be  that  I  should  join 
him  in  management,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  at 
Astley's(!)  where  he  proposed  to  produce  'It  is 
Never  too  Late  to  Mend,'  with  Miss  Ellen  Terry, 
Mr  Calhaem,  and  other  distinguished  artists ;  I  not 
only  declined  to  participate  in  the  speculation,  but 
tried  to  dissuade  him  from  it.  It  was  in  vain, 
however,  that  I  reminded  him  of  the  Boucicaultian 
fiasco  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Westminister.  '  He 
would  have  a  shy,'  he  growled,  'if  he  lost  his  hat.' 

330 


RETURN   TO   LIVERPOOL! 

I  suggested  that  he  had  lost  his  head  ah-eady. 

'  Suppose  I  have !  It's  my  own  to  lose  I '  he 
retorted. 

'  Just  so  I '  I  replied.  *  But  as  I've  only  one, 
excuse  me  if  I  keep  it  on  my  shoulders  as  long  as 
I  can.' 

Of  course  he  remained  obdurate,  and  the  result 
was  exactly  what  I  anticipated.  He  lost  his  money, 
and  lost  heavily. 

Believing,  however,  that  the  London  hall  mark 
of  '  The  Wandering  Heir '  would  prove  attractive 
in  the  country,  at  the  end  of  the  season  at  Astley's 
he  transferred  the  company  (including  Miss  Terry) 
and  the  play  to  Liverpool  with  the  following 
announcement : — 

*  To  THE  Liverpool  Public 

*  Return  of  "  The  Wandering  Heir."  This  great 
drama,  originally  produced  here  and  endorsed  with 
your  approbation,  was  immediately  transferred  to 
London. 

The  metropolis  confirmed  the  verdict  of  Liver- 
pool and  the  drama  was  played  upwards  of  130 
consecutive  nights  at  the  Queen's  Theatre,  Long 
Acre,  by  JNlrs  Seymour's  Company.' 

The  tour  lasted  but  a  short  time,  after  which 
he  returned  to  the  ink-pot. 

For  some  time  after  this  he  stuck  to  his  desk, 
but  always  buzzed  about  the  theatres,  as  the  moth 
buzzes  around  the  flame  of  a  candle,  and  but  too 
frequently,  like  the  poor  insect,  he  singed  his  wings. 

It  was  about  this  period  that  I  singed  mine 
by  entering  upon  the  management  of  the  Queen's 
Theatre. 

In  opposition  to  his  advice,  and  that  of  my 
friend  Phelps,  I  commenced  my  campaign  by  the 
exploitation  of  Signor  Salvini,  the  Italian  tragedian, 
in  the  Shakesperean  drama,  while  my  friends 
Chatterton    and    Hollingshead,    carried   away   by   a 

331 


RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

similar  craze,  engaged  another  '  distinguished 
foreigner,'  to  wit,  Signor  Rossi,  to  oppose  me  at 
Drury  Lane. 

The  result  was  a  disastrous  failure  for  both. 

With  my  expenses  at  £300  a  night,  our  receipts 
never  reached  £100,  and  the  second  week  they 
dwindled  down  to  £18  ! 

That  was  a  settler  for  Salvini,  who  incontinently 
fled  the  country  at  a  moment's  notice,  leaving  me 
in  the  lurch.  Rossi  remained  victorious  at  Drury 
Lane — that  is  to  say,  he  stayed  a  week  or  a  fort- 
night after  the  ignominious  flight  of  Salvini.  The 
triumph,  however,  was  a  dubious  one,  inasmuch 
as  I  have  the  personal  assurance  of  both  Cliatterton 
and  Hollingshead  that  in  a  theatre  which  could 
hold  £1250  a  night,  the  entire  receipts  of  Rossi's 
last  week  (three  nights  and  a  matinee)  amounted 
to  a  total  of  £45 ! 

It  then  occurred  to  the  victor  in  this  sterile 
strife  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to 
follow  the  example  of  his  defeated  and  detested 
rival,  and  return  to  his  beloved  Italy. 

It  may  be  recorded  here  as  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  London  management  that  my  losses  on  this 
disastrous  speculation,  including  as  it  did  the  pre- 
parations for  "  Othello,"  "  Hamlet,"  and  "  IVIacbeth," 
rental,  etc.,  were  counted  by  thousands ;  and  the 
expenditure  incidental  to  my  own  opening  in 
'*  Henry  V."  made  a  hole  in  £6000  more. 

When  our  preparations  commenced  Reade  was 
once  more  in  his  element.  Scarce  a  day  or  night 
passed  that  he  was  not  on  the  stage  or  at  my  house, 
advising,  suggesting,  and  taking  as  much  interest 
in  the  fortunes  of  "  Henry  V."  as  if  he  were  to  be 
the  hero  of  Agincourt  instead  of  myself  Months 
of  hard  work  and  anxiety  began  to  tell  on  me. 
A  few  weeks  prior  to  the  production  he  said  to 
me :  "  You  are  tired  and  overworked.  I  want  you 
to  be  as  fresh  as  paint  when  you  come  out.  Let 
us  run  down  to  Oxford  for  a  few  days,  and  I'll 
undertake  to  freshen  you  up." 

332 


UPON   HIS  NATIVE   HEATH 

So  to  Oxford  we  went.  He  did  the  honours 
of  the  glorious  old  city,  showed  us  all  the  lions, 
the  stately  colleges,  the  beautiful  gardens,  the 
statues,  the  libraries — the  Bodleian  especially — ^^'here 
he  assisted  me  in  hunting  up  certain  authorities  I 
required.  On  Sunday  he  donned  his  cap  and  gown 
and  escorted  us  to  his  collegiate  church.  It  seemed 
strange  to  hear  everybody  call  him  "  doctor,"  though 
not  at  all  strange  that  (whatever  might  have  been 
the  case  formerly)  now  everyone  he  met  appeared 
to  love  and  honour  him.  Of  course,  I  inquired 
where  the  theatre  was.  He  flushed  with  indig- 
nation as  he  made  answer : 

'  In  the  old  times  plays  were  acted  here  in  the 
college  halls  by  the  great  players  of  the  Elizabethan 
age,  and  later  periods  before  kings  and  queens, 
chancellors,  vice-chancellors,  deans,  fellows,  professors, 
and  the  like ;  yet  now,  here,  where  every  stone  in 
the  street  knows  my  footfall ;  where,  please  God,  my 
name  will  be  remembered  when  I  am  dead,  now, 
while  I  am  living,  there  is  not  a  place  where  one 
of  my  plays  can  be  acted ;  for  the  theatre — the 
theatre,  dear  boy  (I  should  be  ashamed  to  show 
it  to  you) — would  disgrace  a  decent  show  at  a 
country  fair.' 

While  listening  to  this  indignant  denunciation, 
I  little  dreamt  that  in  time  to  come  I  should  even 
for  a  single  night  be  condemned  to  act  in  the 
miserable  shed  which,  to  the  discredit  of  the 
municipality,  the  authorities  of  the  University,  and 
the  nineteenth  century,  is  still  designated  the 
'  Theatre  Royal,  Oxford.'  * 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  "Henry  V."  on  the 
night  of  my  debut  my  dear  friend  was  the  first  man 
to  come  round  to  my  room  to  congratulate  me,  and 
the  last  to  leave  it.  Had  I  been  his  son  he  could 
not  have  taken  greater  pride  in  me  or  have  mani- 
fested more  tender  sympathy. 

*  This  scandalous  anomaly  has  been  recently  removed,  and 
Oxford  has  been  provided  with  an  elegant  and  commodious 
theatre. 

333 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

Next  morning  at  ten  o'clock  he  was  at  my  house. 
A  certain  journal  had  distinguished  itself  more  by  the 
virulence  and  mendacity  than  by  the  veracity  of  an 
onslaught  on  me  and  on  my  production.  I  had  seen 
it  before  his  arrival.  He  burst  out :  "  You've  seen  it, 
of  course  you  have.  Some  damned  good-natured 
friend  would  be  sure  to  let  you  know.  Don't 
heed  it,  dear  boy ;  don't  heed  it.  Look  how  they 
served  me.  Remember  how  that  wooden-headed 
bully  and  blockhead  in  the  Edinburgh,  and  that 
donkey  in  the  Saturday  let  me  have  it.  Bah ! 
what  does  an  idiot  like  that  know  about  the  divine 
art  of  acting?  What  was  it  Dryden  said  to  Nat 
Lee  of  the  duffers  of  their  time  ? — 

'They  praise  while  they  accuse 
The  manly  vigour  of  your  youthful  muse  ; 
For  how  should  every  sign-post  dauber  know 
The  worth  of  Titian  or  of  Angelo  ? ' 

There,  there  I  not  a  word  about  it ;  don't 
even  think  of  it.  We  shall  expect  you  to  dinner 
to-night,  seven  sharp.  Ta,  ta.'  And  away  he 
went,  leaving  me  all  the  better  for  his  sympathy. 


334 


CHAPTER   VI 

AN  OBJECT-LESSON  FOR  MANAGERS 

A  Meeting  in  Manchester — 'Joan'  v.  'Valjean  ' — The  Author 
of  'Joan'  comes  to  see  'Valjean' — The  Author  of  'Valjean' 
goes  to  see  'Joan,'  and  pays  for  his  VV'histle — Valedictory — 
Original  Cast  of  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend ' — The  one  and 
only  "' Jacky"  — 'Ad  Plures/  'Griffith  Gaunt/ and  '  Pericles' 
— Production  of  'Pericles'  with  the  Lyceum  Company  at  the 
Memorial  Theatre,  Stratford-on-Avon — '  Griffith  Gaunt '  still 
await  the  Hour  and  the  Woman! 

When,  later  on,  I  took  Henry  V.  in  the  country, 
he  produced,  (as  before  stated,)  '  Foul  Play,'  re- 
named '  The  Scuttled  Ship,'  at  the  Olympic,  and 
'Jealousy,'  taken  from  Sardou's  "Andree." 

Soon  afterwards  a  story  was  published  in  America 
called  '  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's.'  It  was  written  by 
a  lady  (Mrs  Hodgson  Burnett),  evidently  an  English- 
woman, for  it  was  a  very  faithful  transcript  of 
Lancashire  life.  Reade  was  so  struck  with  it  that, 
without  saying  '  with  your  leave  or  by  your  leave,' 
he  dramatised  it ! 

The  authoress  was  naturally  indignant.  It  was 
in  vain  that  he  urged  that  every  story  he  had 
done  had  been  pirated  in  America.  She  retorted 
that  she  had  never  pirated  his  works,  and  therefore 
he  had  no  right  to  pirate  hers.  In  vain  he  offered 
to  divide  any  emolument  which  might  accrue  with 
her.  She  remained  obdurate,  he  remained  obstinate  ; 
and  once  more  he  had  recourse  to  the  Amphitheatre 
at  Liverpool  for  the  production  of  '  Joan '  (so  he 
called  his  new  play),  and  again  the  ill-luck  which 
so  frequently  attended  his  attempts  at  management 
followed  him. 

335 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

The  very  next  week  I  happened  to  be  fulfilling 
a  fortnight's  engagement  at  the  Theatre  Royal, 
Manchester.  To  my  astonishment  and  delight  he 
turned  up  at  my  rooms  the  very  morning  of  my 
arrival.  His  lodgings  were  but  a  stone's  -  throw 
from  ours,  and  while  we  remained  in  Manchester 
we  were  inseparable. 

'  Joan '  was  being  acted  at  the  Queen's  Theatre 
there  by  his  company.  He  admitted  frankly  that 
it  was  a  rank  failure ;  he  could  not  understand  the 
reason  why,  but  there  was  the  fact  staring  him  in 
the  face  nightly  in  the  shape  of  empty  benches. 

Au  cont?^ai?^e,  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  'strike 
oil '  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  my  play  of  '  Valjean,' 
taken  from  '  Les  Miserables,'  which,  when  last  in 
Paris,  I  had  obtained  Victor  Hugo's  permission  to 
dramatise.  Guided,  as  usual,  by  practical  results, 
Reade  turned  his  back  upon  his  own  play  and  came 
to  see  mine  nightly.  After  he  had  been  once  or 
twice  he  began,  after  his  old  fashion,  to  take  stock 
of  the  audience  and  to  interpret  the  piece  through 
their  smiles  and  tears  and  their  applause.  Evi- 
dently this  popular  barometer  satisfied  him,  for 
that  night  at  supper  he  proposed  to  me  to  come 
to  town  and  open  the  Queen's  with  '  Valjean,'  at 
Christmas.  He  would  revise  it,  attach  his  name 
to  it  as  joint-author,  finance  it,  and  provide  a 
magnificent  7?iise  en  scene.  He  was  eager  for  the 
fray,  and  wanted  to  go  into  it  at  once.  Unfor- 
tunately, I  had  made  other  engagements  for 
Christmas,  and  was  thus  compelled  to  forego  a 
chance  which  might  have  retrieved  his  losses  and 
my  own. 

At  the  end  of  my  engagement  I  had  to  go  to 
Scotland,  but,  at  his  request,  we  prolonged  our  stay 
in  order  to  see  'Joan.'  After  the  play  he  took  us 
home  to  supper,  and  then  frankly  asked  me  what 
I  thought  of  the  piece.  I  told  him  that  I  thought 
he  had  never  written  nobler  lines  or  more  graphic 
sketches  of  character,  but  that  the  gloom,  the  squalor, 
the  everlasting  minor  key  which  pervaded  the  entire 

336 


ORICmAL  CAST  OF  "NEVER  TOO  LATE" 

drama  would  prevent  its  ever  becoming  a  popular 
success.  In  the  fulness  of  time  he  himself  reluctantly 
arrived  at  the  same  conclusion. 

IVIiss  Rose  Leclerq,  who  joined  us  at  supper, 
was  also  anxious  to  know  what  I  thought  of  her 
'Joan.' 

In  order  to  give  a  faithful  portraiture  of  a 
Lancashire  lass  of  the  lower  orders,  this  admirable 
and  accomphshed  actress  had  taught  herself,  with 
iniinite  trouble,  to  efface  her  own  charming  per^' 
sonality,  and  to  speak  from  the  bottom  of  her  boots 
in  a  barbarous  and  cacophonous  dialect  absolutely 
painful  to  listen  to. 

On  the  strength  of  an  old  friendship  I  earnestly 
warned  her  against  this  pernicious  habit  lest  it 
should  become  ineradicable. 

I  have  been  sorry  ever  since  that  I  offered  this 
advice,  for  from  that  moment  she  went  into  the 
opposite  extreme ;  the  glorious  contralto  became 
subdued  into  a  finicking  falsetto,  and  this  most 
womanly  of  women  was  transformed  into  the 
mincing  matron  of  fashion,  of  which  she  ultimately 
became  the  accepted  and,  it  must  be  added,  some- 
what exaggerated  type. 

As  we  went  away  into  the  winter's  night,  Reade 
in  the  most  fatherly  manner  took  a  huge  silk  muffler 
from  his  own  throat  and  tied  it  round  mine.  We 
never  paid  so  dearly  for  seeing  a  play,  for  the  very 
marrow  in  our  bones  seemed  frozen  when  we  got 
to  Glasgow  the  next  day. 

Immediately  after  this  visit  to  Manchester  it 
occun-ed  to  the  new  management  of  the  Princess's 
that  'Never  too  Late'  had  not  been  acted  in  town 
for  years,  that  it  had  been  a  great  success  at  that 
theatre  before,  and  might  be  so  again. 

Since  the  name  of  this  play  is  about  to  disappear 
from .  these  pages  I  devote  a  few  valedictory  words 
to  the  subject. 

Imprimis.  Here  is  the  original  cast,  the  cast  at 
Manchester,  and  the  cast  in  town : 


337 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 


Tom  Robinson 

George  Fielding 

Isaac  Levi 

Meadows 

Eden 

Crawley 

Hawes 

Jacky 

Josephs 

Susan 


Original 

Manchester 

(pieman 

Henry  Loraine 

Edward  Coleman 

Henry  Sinclair 

Johnson  Towers 

John  Pritchard 

Mathews 

Fred  Everill 

Towers 

Edward  Coleman 

Walmsley 

Thompson 

Loome 

Loome 

Calhaem 

Calhaem 

Clara  Dillon 

Clara  Dillon 

Grace  Leigh 

Caroline  Carson 

Lo7idon 
George  Vining 
George  MeU'yle 
Tom  Mead, 
Fred  Villiers^ 
J.  G.  Shore 
Dominic  Murray 
Blauchamp 
Calhaem 
Louisa  Moore 
Katharine   Rodgers 

Every  member  of  these  three  companies,  save  the 
lady  who  was  then  Miss  Carson  (and  who  is  said  to 
be  as  charming  at  her  maturity  as  she  was  superbly 
beautiful  in  her  youth),  has  followed  the  author  and 
his  faithful  Egeria  into  the  land  of  shadows. 

I,  and  I  alone,  who  first  produced  the  piece 
and  enacted  the  principal  part,  survive  to  tell  the 
story  of  its  production. 

Some  of  the  original  actors  were  quite  unknown 
to  fame,  others  came  with  their  passports  endorsed 
by  Liverpool,  Manchester,  Edinburgh,  Glasgow, 
Dublin,  Birmingham,  Bath,  Bristol,  and  London. 

Their  triumphs  were  so  ephemeral  that  their 
very  existence  is  almost  forgotten  now,  hence  I 
devote  these  lines  to  their  memory. 

The  first  play  I  ever  saw,  was  in  my  native 
town    (Derby),   where   I   was    taken   as   a   child   to 

Forty  Footsteps,'  a  drama 
afterwards)  upon  a  famous 
a  popular  novelist  of  sixty 
years  ago.  The  hero.  Sir  Arthur  Matchlowe  of 
that  ilk,  was  Mr  Johnson  Towers,  destined  at  a 
later  period  to  become  manager  of  the  Victoria 
Theatre,  and  leading  actor  thereof. 

To  my  unsophisticated  mind  this  gentleman  was 
a  demi-god,  who  fell  from  his  high  estate  when  he 
descended  to  the  'New  Cut.' 

After  some  years  of  profitless  probation  there  he 
retired,  and  sought  employment  elsewhere.  Failing 
an  engagement  in  town  he  obtained  one  at  South- 
ampton, where  we  first  became  acquainted  during  a 
flying  engagement  of  mine. 

338 


see  '  The  Field  of 
founded  (as  I  learnt 
story  by  Miss   Porter 


ORIGINAL  CAST— CONTINUED 

I  was  then  about  to  go  into  the  management 
of  the  Great  Nortliern  Circuit,  and  was  so  impressed 
with  his  modesty,  his  industry,  and  abihty  that  I 
there  and  then  engaged  him  for  my  stage-manager, 
in  which  position  he  remained  with  me  for  many 
years. 

In  certain  parts  he  was  invaluable  —  notably, 
The  Ghost,  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  Sir  John  V^esey,  Captain 
Fairweather  {'Poor  of  London'),  The  Spanish 
admiral  ('True  to  the  Core'),  Henry  VIII. 
('  Katharine  Howard '),  Hawkshaw  ('  Ticket-of- 
Leave  Man'),  Don  Salluste  ('Ruy  Bias'),  and  the 
Abbe  de  Latour  ('Dead  Heart'). 

He  was  the  original  Isaac  Levi,  and  it  would 
have  been  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  have  found 
a  better  one. 

My  impression  is  that  (although  singularly 
reticent  on  the  subject)  Mr  Towers  derived  his 
origin  from  the  Great  Historic  race. 

I  arrived  at  this  conclusion  partly  from  his 
having  selected  a  beautiful  Hebrew  melody  (associ- 
ated, I  believe,  with  the  .lewish  ritual)  to  precede 
and  accompany  his  entrance,  but  principally  because 
of  the  solemnity  and  dignity  with  which  lie  made 
Isaac  Levi  champion  the  wrongs  of  his  people. 

The  original  Susan  Merton.  was  not  a  gi-eat 
actress,  but  she  was  a  charming  and  accomplished 
woman.  Too  sj)irituclle  and  distingue  in  manner 
for  the  robust  Susanna  she  nevertheless  presented  a 
delightful  impersonation,  of  which  the  distinguishing 
characteristics  were  sincerity,  ingenuousness,  and 
womanly  tenderness. 

The  boy  Josephs,  was  enacted  by  ^Miss  Clara 
Dillon,  daughter  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
actors  of  the  English  stage,  and  it  is  simple  justice 
to  say  she  played  the  part  better  than  it  has  ever 
been  played  since. 

AVere  earnestness,  intelligence,  pathos,  and  a 
voice  of  almost  matchless  melody  the  only  requisites 
essential  to  the  embodiment  of  George  Fielding, 
Edward  Coleman  would  have  been  perfect  in  every 

339 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

detail.  Unfortunately,  however,  his  physique  was 
not  adapted  to  the  part. 

Churchill's  well-worn  platitude : 

"  Where  mind  prevails  minor  distinctions  fly, 
Pritchard's  genteel,  and  Garrick  six  foot  high," 

is  simple  "  Bosh  I "  Garrick  never  had  to  play  an 
English  Yeoman  beside  a  huge  Meadows  and  a 
stalwart  Tom  Robinson.  Brains,  however,  did  much 
to  atone  for  my  brother's  lack  of  inches ;  and  the 
author  always  maintained  that  he  had  never  heard 
his  words  given  so  beautifully  as  by  the  original 
George  Fielding.  In  speaking  the  touching  farewell 
to  home  and  Susan,  when  he  came  to  the  lines, 
*  There  will  be  no  church  bells  there  to  mind  me  of 
home  and  Susan ! '  there  wasn't  a  dry  eye  in  the 
house  on  either  side  the  curtain. 

Our  Crawley  was  an  intelligent  and,  indeed, 
artistic  actor,  though  by  no  means  a  brilliant  one. 
He  did  not,  to  my  thinking,  rise,  as  Dominic  Murray 
did,  to  the  occasion,  but  he  was  perfect  in  the  text, 
earnest  and  conscientious. 

Our  Hawes  was  over  six  feet  high,  broad  and 
stalwart  in  proportion,  with  a  sonorous  voice  which 
might  have  been  heard  at  the  other  end  of  the  street. 
An  experienced  actor,  and  a  very  sensible  man,  he 
combined  in  his  own  person  all  the  marked  peculiari- 
ties of  the  old  school  —  peculiarities  which  in  this 
embodiment  were  strongly  accentuated. 

In  real  life  he  was  gentle  as  a  lamb,  but  when 
he  entered  the  model  prison  he  was  transformed  into 
the  most  strident  bully  that  ever  walked  on  two  legs. 
The  wretched  prisoners  trembled,  the  audience  sat 
and  shivered  till  the  end  of  the  act,  when  they  called 
him  before  the  curtain  and  "  boo-hoo'd  "  him  to  their 
hearts'  content,  while  he  strode  off  triumphantly 
defiant. 

In  this  character  he  had  *  snatched  a  grace  be- 
yond the  reach  of  art,'  and  candour  constrains  me 
to  admit  that  his  was  one  of  the  most  impressive 
features  of  the  entire  performance. 

340 


THE   IxVIMITABLE  JACKY 

So  impressed  was  the  author  with  it  that  he 
endeavoured  to  persuade  INIr  Hawes  to  come  to  town 
for  the  part.  '  No,  sir,'  he  repHed  with  dignity,  '  I 
have  condescended  to  this  brutal  ruffian  to  obleege 
the  'governor,'  but  London — never.  Nothing  less 
than  Peter  Teazle  or  Polonius  there.' 

'The  greatest  is  behind.'  Jacky  —  the  inimit- 
able, the  unapproachable  Jacky  I 

Mr  Stanislaus  Calliaem  had  a  long  record  behind 
him. 

He  had  been  a  juvenile  prodigy  —  spouting 
Richard,  Sir  Giles,  Shylock,  young  Norval,  etc.  At 
seventeen  or  eighteen  he  became  a  juvenile  actor  and 
light  comedian. 

When  on  a  visit  to  Liverpool  during  my  school- 
days, 1  saw  him  play  Hamlet  in  a  remarkable 
composition,  by  the  author  of  '  Shakespeare's  Early 
Days,'  entitled  '  Yorick,  the  King's  Jester,  or  the 
Early  Days  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark.'  The 
impression  left  on  my  mind  by  this  performance 
was  so  vivid  that,  years  later,  when  I  went  into 
management,  Mr  CaDiaem's  was  one  of  the  first 
engagements  I  made. 

Proficient  in  all  the  accomplishments  which 
were  then  deemed  indispensable  for  the  stage,  he 
was  a  capital  swordsman,  an  admii-able  dancer,  an 
excellent  musician,  a  graceful  pantomimist,  and  an 
exceedingly  well-read  man. 

Among  other  accomplishments  he  had  a  taste 
for  chemistry.  While  trying  an  experiment  with 
some  dangerous  compoimd  it  exploded,  fracturing 
his  front  teeth,  which  were  so  firmly  fixed,  that, 
instead  of  being  blown  out  by  the  roots,  they  snapped 
in  the  middle,  resulting,  unfortunately,  in  a  disfigure- 
ment for  life.  Under  these  circumstances  it  became 
essential,  and,  indeed,  imperative,  to  change  his  line 
of  business,  hence  I  put  him  into  eccentric  Robsonian 
characters  and  mock-heroic  burlesque. 

The  great  tie  of  ffimily  was  of  paramount  import- 
ance with  him  (as  indeed  it  was  with  all  actors  of 
that  period  I ),  and  when  he  became  a  member  of  my 

341 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

company  he  never  rested  till  his  brother  Frank  and 
his  father  joined  us  at  Sheffield,  and  very  valuable 
recruits  they  were. 

Having  won  his  spurs  with  me  as  an  eccentric 
comedian,  Calhaem  went  to  Edinburgh  and  Dublin, 
where  he  became  a  popular  idol.  From  Dublin  he 
joined  Dillon  at  the  Lyceum,  where,  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  Miss  Woolgar,  Lady  Bancroft  (then 
Marie  Wilton),  and  Mr  J.  L.  Toole,  he  made  a  great 
mark  as  Polixenes  ( '  Perdita ;  or,  the  Royal  Milk- 
maid ' ).  After  that  he  was  for  years  with  Falconer 
and  Chatterton  at  Drury  Lane,  the  Adelphi,  the 
Princess's,  and  with  Fechter  at  the  Lyceum,  from 
whence  he  ultimately  returned  to  me. 

He  was  anxious  to  play  Crawley  (originally 
designed  for  Robson),  alleging  that  the  part  was  in 
every  act,  while  Jacky  was  only  in  one. 

Knowing,  however,  how  much  depended  on  this 
part,  and  knowing  also  how  thoroughly  I  could  rely 
on  Calhaem  to  carry  out  my  views,  I  insisted  on  his 
accepting  it.  The  result  entirely  justified  my  antici- 
pations ;  his  Jacky  was  a  creation,  a  veritable  and 
absolute  incarnation  of  the  author's  ideal — so  perfect 
in  every  detail  that  it  astonished  and  delighted  the 
most  fastidious  and  exacting  critic  then  in  existence. 

Returning  to  the  later  management  of  Princess's. 

Mr  Gooch  had  decided  on  the  revival  of  '  It  is 
Never  too  Late.'  There  was  only  one  difficulty — 
the  part  of  Jacky.  Adequate  representatives  could 
be  found  for  all  the  other  parts.  Indeed,  Messrs 
Henry  Loraine,  George  Vining,  Sinclair,  Vernon,  and 
Henry  Neville  had  already  played  my  part,  and  Mr 
Charles  Warner  was  now  cast  for  it.  There  was, 
however,  but  one  Jacky,  and  his  name  was  Calhaem. 

Strange  to  say,  at  this  very  time  he  was  again 
under  an  engagement  to  me  in  Glasgow.  I  could 
ill  affiDrd  to  lose  him,  but  when  Reade  appealed  to 
me  I  could  not  say  'Nay.'  So  Jacky  once  more 
assisted  to  pilot  '  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend ' 
into  the  haven  of  success. 

342 


EXIT  JACKY! 

This  unique  and  extraordinary  performance  (quite 
worthy  of  being  remembered  with  the  Dundreary  of 
Sothern,  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  of  Jefferson,  and  the 
DigFy  Grand  of  Irving)  induced  many  people  to  be- 
Heve^hat  Calhaern  could  do  nothing  else.  He  was 
certainly  not  an  actor  of  the  grin  and  gag,  scratch 
wig,  red  nose  and  horse  collar  genus,  but  he  was  a 
comedian  of  a  high  order  of  intelligence ;  in  fact, 
of  so  high  a  standard  that  those  who  have  never 
seen  him  in  the  First  Gravedigger,  Lancelot 
Gobbo,  Roderigo,  Glavis,  Lord  Tinsel,  Trotter 
Southdown,  Doctor  Felix  Merryweather,  Toupet 
('Dead  Heart'),  Graves,  Moses,  Sir  Benjamin  Back- 
bite, Zekiel  Homespun,  Barney  ('Peep  o'  Day'), 
Myles  na  Coppaleen,  etc.,  can  form  no  idea  of  the 
nature  and  extent  of  his  variety.  Happily  he  made 
'  a  swan-like  end  fading  in  music,'  inasmuch  as 
his  last  prominent  impersonation  was  the  Clown 
in  Sir  Henry  Irving's  charming  production  of  '  The 
Twelfth  Night '  at  the  Lyceum. 

Lamentable  to  relate,  the  closing  years  of  Mr 
Calhaem's  life  were  clouded  with  misfortunes  which 
were  never  of  his  own  creation. 

At  a  period  when  even  eminent  actors  were  but 
indifferently  paid,  by  dint  of  strict  economy  and  rigid 
self-denial  he  had  saved  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds, 
a  few  hundreds  of  which  he  lent  the  manager  of 
a  certain  West  End  theatre,  who  came  to  grief; 
while,  through  the  indiscreet  advice  of  a  relative 
connected  with  the  Stock  Exchange,  he  (Calhaem) 
was  induced  to  invest  the  remainder  of  his  savings  in 
certain  disastrous  speculations,  with  the  result  that  he 
parted  with  his  last  piece  of  scrip  for  a  few  shillings. 

A  vii*ulent  and  long  continued  attack  of  neuritis 
ultimately  drove  him  from  the  stage,  and  about  two 
years  ago,  poor  .Tacky  '  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil ' 
esteemed  and  beloved  by  all  who  knew  and  appreciated 
a  blameless  record  and  an  honourable  life.      R.I, P. 

Since  its  original  production  'Never  too  Late' 
has    been    repeatedly   revived    in    town.      First    by 

343 


I 


RANDOM  RECOLLECTIONS 

Henry  Neville  at  the  Olympic,  next  by  Gooch,  then 
by  the  Gattis  at  the  Adelphi,  and  more  recently 
still  at  Drury  Lane,  where,  upon  its  first  produc- 
tion as  'Gold,'  nearly  half  -  a  -  century  ago,  it  had 
achieved  only  a  quasi-success.  Time,  the  great 
avenger,  reversed  the  original  verdict,  and  so  pro- 
nounced was  the  success  of  '  Never  too  Late '  at 
Old  Drury  that  the  late  Augustus  Harris  was 
induced,  by  my  ad\dce,  to  take  a  lease  of  the  play, 
which  he  retained  until  his  death,  when  it  reverted 
to  the  author's  literary  executors. 

In  addition  to  the  MetropoUtan  revivals  abeady 
mentioned,  this  play  has  been  acted  at  every 
theatre  in  the  Empire.  In  point  of  fact,  it  has 
been  acted  thousands  and  thousands  of  times ;  the 
author  has  received  thousands  and  thousands  of 
pounds  for  royalties ;  and,  finally,  its  attraction  re- 
mains undiminished  to  this  day  1 

The  vicissitudes  of  this  play  form  an  object-lesson 
for  dramatists  and  managers  : 

Here  was  a  drama  founded  upon  an  epoch- 
making  story  which  had  passed  through  countless 
editions  ;  a  drama  written  by  a  world-renowned  author, 
not  only  renowned  as  a  novelist,  but  actually  as  a 
dramatist,  collaborating  at  that  very  time  with  Tom 
Taylor  (the  most  successful  dramatic  author  of  the 
period ! )  in  '  Masks  and  Faces,'  '  King's  Rival,' 
'Two  Loves  and  a  Life'  at  the  Haymarket,  St 
James's,  and  the  Adelphi. 

Spurious  adaptations  had  enabled  pirates  and 
thieves  to  filch  bushels  of  money  out  of  the  author's 
brains,  yet  when  (having  succeeded  in  legally  pro- 
tecting his  rights)  he  himself  wrote  a  play  embodying 
his  own  work,  no  metropolitan  manager  would  deign 
to  even  look  at  it  I 

For  seven  long  years  it  lay  upon  the  shelf,  and 
might  possibly  have  lain  the?^e  till  this  day  had  I  not 
fortunately  exhumed  it ! 

Nor  was  this  the  only  work  of  Reade's  subjected 
to  the  same  indignity. 

Thirty  years  ago   he,    as   I    have  already  stated, 

344 


"GRIFFITH   GAUNT"  AND   "PERICLES" 

dramatised    one     of    his    gi'eatest    works,    '  Griffith 
Gaunt.'* 

Always  in  advance  of  his  contemporaries,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  have  fallen  behind 
them,  and  that  his  work  might  possibly  have  become 
rococo  and  old-fashioned  in  the  efflux  of  time ; 
hence  (knowing  my  iconoclastic  tendencies ! ),  a  few 
months  before  his  death,  he  invited  me  to  collaborate, 
gave  me  carte  blanche  to  revise  and  re^Tite  and  re- 
construct up-to-date. 

Impressed  as  I  had  always  been  with  the  human 
and  emotional  strength  of  the  subject  and  its  potent 
possibilities  for  popular  attraction,  I  went  into  the 
matter  con  amove. 

All  that  his  genius  could  accomplish,  combined 
with  all  that  his  collaborator's  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  most  distinguished  dramatists  and  the  study 
of  the  best  forms  of  dramatic  art  for  upwards  of 
half-a-century  could  suggest  or  devise,  has  been  done 
to  make  this  work  as  nearly  perfect  as  possible,  yet 
to  this  day  it  I'emains  unacted! 

I  avail  myself  of  the  licence  of  occasion  to  quote 
a  solitary  exception  to  the  too  frequent  fatuity  of  my 
brother  managers.  AVhen  with  me  at  the  Queen's, 
my  friend  Phelps  assured  me  that  his  re^dval  of 
'Pericles'  half-a-century  ago  was  the  crowning 
triumph  of  his  management  at  Sadler's  Wells.  At 
his  suggestion,  with  loving  care  and  infinite  pains, 
I  prepared  an  adaptation,  devised  with  the  aid  of 
the  eminent  artist,  Mr  JNIoyr  Smith,    an    elaborate, 

*  "  No  language  can  overpraise  what  hardly  any  praise  can 
sufficiently  acknowledge — the  masterly  construction,  the  sustained 
intensity  of  interest,  the  keen  and  profound  pathos,  the  perfect 
and  triumphant  disguise  of  triumphant  and  perfect  art,  the  living 
breath  of  passion,  the  spontaneous  and  vivid  interaction  of  char- 
acter and  event,  the  noble  touches  of  terror,  and  the  sublimer 
strokes  of  pity,  which  raise  this  story  almost  an  high  as  prose  can 
climb  toivards  poetry,  and  set  it  perhaps  as  near  as  narrative  can  come 
to  Drama.   .   .   . 

There  is  not  another  of  his  books  which,  as  an  all  but  con- 
sumate  work  of  art,  can  be  set  beside  or  near  this  Masterpiece  !  " — 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

345 


RANDOM   RECOLLECTIONS 

picturesque,  and  magnificent  mise  en  scene,  accurate 
costumes,  etc.,  and  offered  it  to  manager  after 
manager,  with  the  usual  result. 

I  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  it  done, 
when  lo !  to  my  amazement,  during  his  recent 
management  of  the  Lyceum,  Mr  Frank  Benson 
(up  to  that  moment  a  total  stranger  to  me)  invited 
me — yes,  actually  invited  me — to  produce  the  piece, 
and  to  enact  the  hero,  during  the  recent  Memorial 
performances  at  the  Shakespeare  Theatre,  Stratford- 
on-Avon ! 

The  Lyceum  stage  being  nightly  occupied  by 
'  Richard  II. '  and  '  The  Tempest,'  we  could  only 
devote  ten  days  to  this  important  production,  yet, 
thanks  to  Mr  Benson's  liberality,  the  loyal  co  - 
operation  of  his  company,  and,  I  may  add,  the 
enthusiastic  support  of  the  pubhc,  the  result  was 
successful  beyond  our  most  sanguine  anticipations. 

The  principal  journals  teemed  with  eulogia. 
Clement  Scott  wrote  three  glowing  columns  on  the 
work ;  Marie  Corelli  devoted  no  less  than  three  con- 
secutive articles  to  it ;  the  late  Dean  Farrar  pro- 
nounced it  the  most  interesting  production  he  had 
ever  witnessed.  Yet  up  to  this  moment  it  remains 
unacted  in  London ! 

These  two  works,  '  Pericles '  and  '  Griffith  Gaunt ' 
would  prove  a  gold-mine  for  an  enterprising  impresario^ 
and  enable  a  capable,  ambitious,  and  beautiful  actress 
to  achieve  great  reputation. 

Here  is  an  opportunity  for  fame  and  fortune,  but 
where  is  the  man  and  the  woman  to  dare  and  do  ? 

Echo  answers — where  ? 


End  of  Book  the  Third 


34a 


Book  the  Fourth 
EGERIA 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure.     But  Ihou 
If  Thou  should' St  never  see  my  face  agam 
Pray  for  my  soul ! ' 


Book  the  Fourth 
EGERIA 

CHAPTER  PAOB 

I.    TWO    ORPHANS  ....       349 

II.    END    OF    THE   JOURNEY  .  .  .       385 


Frmii  II   Pii'nilniii  h/i   Fnnniti] 


EGERIA   AS  JULIET 

/EtaT  ly 


CHAPTER   1 

TWO  ORPHANS 

The  Woman  in  Widow's  Weeds — After  many  Years  —  Story  of 
a  noble  Life  —  Two  Orphans — Bath  half-a-century  ago  — 
Generosity  of  Israel  Vercoza — First  Glimpse  of  Macready — 
Little  Mother  and  little  Sister — Arrival  at  Golden  Cross — 
Vercoza's  Deputy  departs  for  South  America  —  Blotter's 
Bank  fails  —  Exit  Vercoza  —  Alone  in  London  —  Charles 
Kemble  and  Fanny  Kemble  to  the  Rescue  —  From  Covent 
Garden  to  the  "New  Cut" — "For  never  was  a  Story  of  more 
Woe,  Than  this  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo"  —  Macready  — 
Charles  Kean  and  W^illiam  Farren  at  Dublin  —  Return  to 
London  —  Advent  of  Aspasia — A  Voyage  to  America  —  Dis- 
solution of  the  Trinity  —  Augustus  goes  to  Portsmouth 
— Seymour  and  Curling  move  over  to  the  Majority — Egeria 
remains  and  keeps  House — A  last  Good-Bye 

In  this  narrative  I  have  too  long  lost  sight  of  my 
dear  kind  friend  '  Egeria.' 

I  had  occasionally  heard  that  she  was  ill,  but 
never  dreamt  that  her  indisposition  was  of  so  serious 
a  character.  Reade,  however,  knew  better,  as  is 
evident  from  the  following  extracts  from  his  diary, 
dated  March  1878:— 

*  I  have  nearly  lost  poor  Seymour  by  internal 
gout.  She  had  a  month  of  agony  followed  by  long 
prostration.  It  appears  to  have  been  caused  by 
many  worries,  and  by  applying  cold  water  to  an 
attack  of  podagra.  The  gout  was  cured  thereby  in  a 
few  hours,  but  the  malady  resented  this  and  crept 
to  the  vitals.  Her  predecessor,  Betterton,  is  said  to 
have  killed  himself  in  forty  -  eight  hours  by  this 
treatment.       He    was    implored    to   play  for   some 

349 


EGERIA 

friend's  benefit  whilst  labouring  inider  gout — got  rid 
of  it  with  cold  water,  acted,  and  died.' 

(On  this  memorable  occasion,  by  a  remarkable 
coincidence,  Betteiton  played  Melantius  in  the  "Maid's 
Tragedy "  ("  The  Bridal ")  the  very  play  in  which 
Egeria  had  made  her  first  impression  upon  Reade.) 

'  Seymour's  natural  inability  to  eat  was  against 
her.  She  was  exhausted  by  pain,  and  not  supported 
by  nutriment.  Tried  homoeopathy  first,  then  allo- 
pathy. The  gout  was,  on  one  occasion,  reheved  by 
belladonna,  administered  by  me,  at  her  request,  7iot 
in  a  large  dose. 

She  was  attended  twice  a  day  by  Quain,  ivho 
refused  all  fee.  Her  illness  showed  this,  at  all 
events — what  love  and  respect  she  was  held  in  by  all 
who  know  her,  women  especially,  who  love  her 
because  she  is  singularly  free  from  the  vices  of 
her  sex — vanity  and  malicious  babbling.  I  took  her 
down  to  Brighton,  but  it  did  her  little  good  ;  indeed, 
she  had  a  slight  relapse  there.' 

Alas !  I  was  soon  to  learn  the  truth  from  her 
own  lips. 

Being  in  town  early  in  1879  I  called  immediately 
at  Albert  Gate,  and  was  shocked  to  find  her  so 
greatly  changed. 

She  was  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  lady  in 
widow's  weeds,  to  whom  she  introduced  me,  and 
whom  I  immediately  recognised  as  the  heroine  of 
the  squalid  tragedy  which  occurred  on  the  memorable 
night  of  our  visit  to  the  '  Yiok '  before  referred  to. 

Evidently  they  had  finished  their  conversation,  for 
Mrs  Heritage  tenderly  embraced  the  invalid,  and  took 
her  departure   almost  immediately  after  my  arrival. 

*  I  see  you  remember  her,'  said  Egeria. 

'  Remember  !  I  shall  never  forget  the  grotesque 
horror  of  that  night.' 

'  Nor  I ! ' 

'  So  long  ago,  yet  in  mourning  still  ? ' 

'  She  will  wear  the  willow  as  long  as  she  lives. 
But  there,  there  !  let's  talk  of  yourself;  I've  not  seen 

350 


THE   LAST  VISIT 

you  for  an  age.     Where  have  you  been,  what  have 
you  been  doing,  and  what  brings  you  here  ? ' 

'  Why  you,  of  course  ! ' 

'  Be  off  with  your  blarney,  sii*,  and  come  to  cues.' 

'  WeU,  to  begin  with,  I  want  to  see  Charley.' 

'  Impossible,  he's  in  Paris.' 

'  In  Paris  ! ' 

'  Is  it  anything  I  can  do  ? ' 

'  I  fear  not.  The  fact  is,  I've  been  reading 
*  L'Assommou','  and  I  have  made  a  play  of  it.' 

' Indeed ! ' 

'  Yes ;  and  I've  just  seen  a  paragraph  in  the 
Globe  stating  that  He  is  about  to  dramatise  it.  I 
w^ant  to  know  if  that  is  true,  lest  I  should  be 
poaching  on  his  preserves.' 

'  It  is  true — too  true.  I  wish  'twere  not,  for  I 
detest  the  beastly  thing.  I'm  sure  he'll  lose  money 
and  reputation  by  it.  I've  done  all  I  could  to  dis- 
suade him,  but  that  dreadful  John  Hollingshead  has 
persuaded  him  'twill  be  another  "Xever  too  Late." 

'  INIine  will  be  an  English  story,  and,  anyhow, 
I'd  like  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say  on  the  subject. 
What's  his  address  ? ' 

'  Hotel  de  Lisle  et  D' Albion,  Rue  St  Honore.' 

'  May  I  write  ? ' 

'  Certainly.  Here's  pen  and  paper.  Write  while 
1  make  myself  decent  for  dinner.  Of  course  you'll 
stay — you  must.  We  shall  be  tete-a-tete,  and  we've 
much  to  talk  about.' 

jNIy  letter  written  and  posted,  dinner  de- 
spatched, coffee  served,  we  were  left  alone. 

Although  the  poor  dear  was  feeble,  and  suffer- 
ing from  great  pain,  her  natin-al  vivacity  and  flow 
of  conversation  had  not  deserted  her. 

'  Come  round  the  fire,  and  let's  have  a  good 
long  jaw.  I've  ever  so  much  to  say  to  you  now 
I've  got  you  alone,  and  we  may  never  have 
another  chance.  I've  often  heard  you  speak  to 
Charley  of  yoiu'  boyish  trials,  your  struggles,  and 
your  privations.  Ah !  they  were  child's  play  com- 
pared to  mine.' 

351 


EGERIA 

*  You  must  have  had  hard  Hnes,  then ! ' 

*  Hard !  To  begin  with,  you  were  a  boy.  / 
was  a  girl.  You  were  alone — there  were  two  of 
us,  and  I  had  to  be  father  and  mother,  brother 
and  sister,  and  all  the  world  to  the  little  one,  while 
yet  a  child  myself  —  I  wonder  how  I  ever  sur- 
vived it.  Have  a  weed  ? '  she  inquired,  producing 
a  cigarette. 

Not  deeming  smoking  a  feminine  accomplish- 
ment, I  gasped  :  '  No,  thanks  ! ' 

'You  might  as  well.  I'm  going  to  have  one, 
anyhow.  You  seem  astonished,  but  you  wouldn't 
be  if  you'd  ever  been  in  Lousiana.  Everyone 
smokes  there !  When  I  had  a  violent  attack  of 
neuralgia  at  New  Orleans  the  doctors  prescribed 
smoking ;  it  soothed  my  nerves.  I  got  accustomed 
to  it,  and  now  I  can't  go  to  bed  without  it. 

It's  my  one  infirmity,  and  when  He's  at  home 
I  have  to  watch  my  opportunity,  for,  as  you  are 
doubtless  aware,  He  detests  the  very  smell  of  it. 
As  a  rule,  I  indulge  in  my  own  room  and  pufF  up 
the  chimney ;  but  it's  Liberty  Hall  while  He  is  away, 
so  I'll  mix  you  a  glass  of  punch,  and  then ' 

The  glass  of  punch  mixed,  the  cigarettes  set 
going,  she  resumed : 

'  You've  often  said  you  would  like  to  know 
all  about  me  and  my  belongings.' 

'  As  much  as  you  care  to  tell  me.' 

'  There's  nothing  to  keep  back  —  nothing  that 
I  need  be  ashamed  of.' 

*  I'm  sure  of  that.' 

'You  say  so,  but  I  don't  think  you  believe  it. 
No !  you  imagine  I'm  a  woman  with  a  past  ? ' 

'Really,  I ' 

'  Well,  I  am — I  am,  and  glory  in  it !  But  it 
was  a  clean  past.  Troubled,  oh,  so  troubled,  but 
a  clean  slate  notwithstanding.  Mother  died  in  giving 
birth  to  my  sister  Carrie  while  I  was  yet  a  baby. 
Father  was  a  surgeon  in  Bath — a  popular  one,  too 
— with  a  fairly  large  practice. 

He   was   one   of  those   amiable    idiots   who   are 

352 


STORY  OF  A   NOBLE   LIFE 

friends  to  every  one  but  their  own  family.  A  boii 
vivant,  a  good  story-teller,  but  the  fondest  of  fathers, 
who  idolised  the  two  motherless  bairns  who  adored 
him. 

From  ten  years  of  age  I  kept  house,  and  was 
a  little  mother  to  Carrie,  though  only  twelve  months 
her  senior. 

We  lived  in  the  Crescent  in  grand  style,  and 
kept  open  house  —  gave  big  dinners  and  musical 
evenings. 

The  Bath  Theatre  was  then  a  fashionable  in- 
stitution, and  Father  often  took  us.  That  was  how 
the  love  of  the  Theatre  grew  into  our  bones. 

One  of  our  most  frequent  visitors  was  INlr  Israel 
Vercoza,  a  tall,  dark,  handsome,  Oriental-looking 
man  of  middle  age,  with  great  fiery-brown  eyes 
and  a  dark  beard — a  most  unusual  thing  for  a 
gentleman  to  wear  in  those  days.  Apparently  he 
was  of  foreign  origin,  Portuguese,  I  think !  He 
was  father's  solicitor,  and  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ance. They  were  both  late  birds,  and  both  great 
card-players. 

One  night  I  left  them  at  The  Devil  -  Books, 
and  when  I  went  to  call  Dad  for  breakfast  in  the 
morning  I  discovered  he  had  not  been  in  bed  all 
night.  I  found  liim  in  the  dining-room,  nesthng  in 
the  armchair,  with  his  handkerchief  thrown  over  his 
face. 

'  Wake  up,  lazy  bones  ! '  said  I.  *  Breakfast  has 
been  waiting  this  half-hour.'  With  that  I  plucked 
the  handerchief  from  his  face. 

Poor  dear !  he  was  sleeping  his  last  sleep,  and 
never  woke  again. 

Naturally,  Carrie  fainted  —  it's  a  way  she  has. 
As  soon  as  I  could  shake  her  up  I  slipped  on  my 
things  and  ran  down  to  Mr  A'ercoza's  office  in 
Milson  Street,  and  told  him  what  luid  happened. 

He  listened  in  silence. 

'  Poor   old   chap ! '    said   he.      After  a   pause,   he 
continued :  '  I    must  think  what's  best  to  do.     But 
first  to  see  about  the  funeral.' 
z  353 


EGERIA 

*  The  funeral  I ' 

'  Hush  1  Go  home !  No !  go  to  the  dress- 
maker's, order  mourning  for  yourself  and  the  other 
girl,  and  tell  them  to  send  the  bill  in  to  me.' 

The  funeral  took  place  all  too  quickly.  Of  all 
father's  fine  friends,  the  only  one  who  accompanied 
us  to  the  grave  was  Mr  Vercoza. 

He  took  us  home  to  his  place  for  dinner. 
Dinner !  We  couldn't  eat  a  morsel.  We  could 
think  only  of  the  poor  dear  lying  out  yonder  in  the 
cold  and  the  rain,  for  the  drizzle  drizzle  which  fell 
when  we  left  him  there,  had  changed  into  a  per- 
sistent downpour. 

He,  there  alone  (let  us  hope  not;  for  there  was 
Mother  beyond !)  but  we  were  alone,  without  one 
living  relative.  As  to  friends !  Well,  we  should 
see.     We  did  see. 

After  dinner  Vercoza  said :  '  I  have  some  im- 
portant letters  to  write,  so  you'd  better  get  home, 
little  woman.  Brougham's  at  the  door.  Don't  sit 
gaping  like  mumchance ;  let  go  the  painter  and 
have  a  cry.  Don't  be  afraid  to  howl :  it'll  do  you 
a  power  of  good.' 

He  was  right — it  did. 

Father  had  kept  all  trouble  from  us.  We  had  ate 
of  the  fat,  drank  of  the  sweet,  and  dressed  like  little 
duchesses  while  he  was  alive — but  now  ? 

When  we  got  home,  we  found  two  sets  of  bailiffs 
in — one  for  the  Queen's  taxes,  one  for  rent — a  heap 
of  unpaid  bills  with  peremptory  demands  for  pay- 
ment, and  the  servants  up  in  arms  demanding 
to  know  who  was  to  be  responsible  for  their 
wages ! 

Fortunately  the  brougham  remained  at  the  door. 
We  sprang  into  it  and  drove  back  to  Vercoza's. 
When  I  told  him  the  state  of  the  land,  he  growled : 
'  H'm  !  1  expected  as  much.  Get  in  ! '  and  he  thrust 
us  into  the  brougham,  jumping  in  after  us. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  Crescent  he  sprang 
out  and  said  to  the  driver :  'Go  and  get  me  a  couple 
of  Bobbies.'     Then  entering  the  house,  he  summoned 

354 


ISRAEL  VERCOZA 

the  bailiffs.  '  Let  me  see  your  authority,'  he  said, 
veiy  curtly.  Each  man  produced  a  blue  official 
paper.  '  Is^ow,  costs  ! '  Then  writing  a  couple  of 
cheques  he  gave  them  one  each,  and  a  sovereign 
to  divide  between  them,  pourboire. 

As  they  left  the  room,  the  servants  (there  were 
five  of  them)  swarmed  in,  Avi-angling  with  Joyce  the 
housekeeper. 

'  Silence  !  you  scum  of  the  earth  I '  growled  \'er- 
coza,  as  he  snatched  her  accoimt  out  of  her  hand. 
*  Is  it  right,  Laura  ? '  he  inquired. 

'  Quite ! ' 

*  \"ery  well  then,  you — you  Jezebel — put  settled  I 
D'ye  hear — settled  !     Here's  a  cheque  ! ' 

Then  calling  in  the  police  who  were  now  wait- 
ing, he  continued  :    '  Bundle  this  rubbish  out ! ' 

'  But  it's  raining !  and  we  want  our  clothes,' 
whined  Joyce. 

'  Then  want  will  be  your  master  until  to- 
morrow.    Out  with  'em  ! ' 

And  out  they  went  next  minute  amidst  the 
deluge ! 

'Now,  my  lads,'  he  continued,  slipping  a  sovereign 
apiece  into  the  hands  of  the  astonished  police,  '  lock 
the  doors — that's  right.     Hand  over  the  key.' 

Then  placing  us  in  the  brougham,  he  followed. 

When  we  got  back  to  his  house  he  said  to  his 
housekeeper :  '  These  yoimg  ladies  will  sleep  in  my 
room  to-night.     Send  'em  up  a  dish  of  tea  and ' 

'  But  these,  sir  ? '  said  I,  handing  him  a  bundle 
of  bills. 

'  Oh,  sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof — 
we'll  see  about  them  to-morrow.' 

'  But,  should  the  bailiffs ? ' 

'  Bah  !  here's  the  key.' 

*  Suppose  they  burst  the  doors  ? ' 

'  They  know  better  than  try  a  game  like  that 
with  Israel  Vercoza.     Off  you  go  to  bed ! ' 

That  night  w^e  cried  oursehes  to  sleep  in  each 
other's  arms. 

When   we    returned    home  in  the    morning,   we 

355 


EGERIA 

found  huge  placards  on  the  house,  announcing  '  Sale 
by  Auction  of  valuable  furniture,  plate,  and  paint- 
ings, under  a  Bill  of  Sale  held  and  duly  registered 
by  Israel  Vercoza,  Esq.' 

So  then  this  was  the  secret  of  his  generosity  I 
Back  we  tramped  to  the  office,  where  a  ^  ery  stormy 
interview  took  place  and  I  fear  I  taxed  the  resources 
of  the  English  language,  as  far  I  knew  them,  to 
express  my  opinion  of  his  inhumanity,  his  actual 
barbarity. 

He  listened  with  patience,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  quietly  remarked :  '  Very  good !  Now  you've 
let  off  steam,  go  home,  shut  yourself  up  in  your 
own  room,  and  have  another  good  howl  I  Early 
dinner  at  two  o'clock  will  be  sent  in  each  day  from 
'  The  Hoop.'  ISIacready  is  playing  at  Bristol. 
Trap  and  pair  of  horses  will  be  at  the  door  at  four 
o'clock  daily  to  drive  you  over  there  and  drive  you 
back.  Don't  trouble  about  the  house — it  won't  run 
away.  As  for  the  furniture,  trust  my  men  to  see  to 
that.  JNIourning  !  What's  that  you  say  ?  Rubbish  ! 
All  the  mourning  in  the  world  won't  bring  my  poor 
old  friend  back.  Besides,  people  in  Bristol  know 
nothing  about  him  or  you.  A  Private  Box  is  secured 
for  each  night — and — oh  yes !  I  know  I'm  a  brute 
and  a  barbarian,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  That'll  do : 
cut  your  stick  ! ' 

We  didn't  go  to  Bristol  the  first  night ;  but  as 
neither  that  day  nor  the  next,  did  any  one  of 
father's  fair-weather  friends  deign  to  put  in  an 
appearance,  we  concluded  it  might  be  as  well  to 
go  to  Bristol. 

Wretched  as  we  were,  Macready  interested, 
engrossed,  enthralled,  opened  new  worlds  to  us. 

By  turns  he  was  Hamlet,  Hotspur,  Macbeth, 
Orestes,  Virginius,  AVilUam  Tell,  Gambia,  and  Rob 
Roy,  in  each  and  all  a  demi-god  ! 

Altho'  he  didn't  make  us  forget  our  loss,  he 
lifted  us  out  of  our  present  misery.  As  for  the 
future ! — we  didn't  remain  long  in  doubt  about  that. 
The   sale   was   to   take   place   at   twelve  o'clock  on 

356 


"PAT  HE  CAME  LIKE  TOM  A  BEDLAM!" 

the  day  of  ]Maeready's  benefit  and  last  night  in 
Bristol. 

The  day  before,  we  received  a  curt  intimation 
that  the  trap  would  be  at  the  door  at  eleven  in  the 
morning  to  drive  us  to  Clifton  over  the  Downs,  and 
that  dinner  was  ordered  at  the  new  hotel  there  for 
four  o'clock.  At  first  we  were  indignant  at  being 
ordered  about  in  this  unceremonious  manner,  but 
when  the  time  came  we  were  glad  to  be  spared 
the  pain  of  seeing  our  household  gods  scattered  to 
the  winds. 

On  our  return  that  night  we  were  horrified  by 
the  dismantled  appearance  of  the  home  of  our  child- 
hood. In  the  hall  Father  and  Mother's  portraits 
lay  against  the  wall  amongst  the  general  wreckage. 
The  sight  set  us  off,  and  when  we  got  to  bed 
we  lay  weeping  and  wailing  till  daybreak.  By  that 
time  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  crept  down  to  the 
surgery  and  routed  about  till  I  found  a  bottle  of 
laudanum.  AVhen  I  oot  back  I  locked  the  door 
and  put  the  bottle  on  the  table. 

'  You  know  what  that's  for  ? '  I  said  to  Carrie. 

'Yes,'  she  replied.  'The  sooner  the  better.' 
And  she  threw  herself  into  my  arms. 

Then — '  Pat  he  came  like  Tom  a  Bedlam  ! ' 

'  Vercoza  ? ' 

Of  course,  you  goose,  or  how  should  I  be  here 
to  tell  you  the  story  ?  It  seems  one  of  the  men  left 
in  possession,  saw  me  go  into  the  surgery,  saw  me 
come  out  clasping  a  bottle  in  my  hand.  Fortunately, 
\^ercoza  came  in  at  that  very  moment.  AA^ien  he 
heard  what  had  happened,  he  was  up  the  stairs 
like  a  lamplighter. 

'  Open  the  door  ! '  he  shouted.  '  Do  you  hear, 
you  young  idiots  !  Nay  then  ! '  and  bang  went  the 
door  about  our  ears,  and  in  he  rushed.  '  How  dare 
you ! — how  dare  you  ? '  he  roared,  as  he  snatched 
the  bottle  from  my  hand  and  flung  it  through  the 
window. 

Crack,  crash !  Smash,  smash !  went  the  sheet 
of  tjlass  as  we  ran  shrieking  behind  the  bed ;  for,  to 

357 


EGERIA 

tell  you  the  truth,  we  were  not  quite  fit  to  receive 
company,  being  each  simply  attired  in  one  indis- 
pensable garment. 

'For  two  pins  I'd  take  the  pair  of  you  on  my 
knees  and  give  you  a  spanking  that  you'll  remember 
for  the  rest  of  your  lives,  you  young  hussies !  But 
there,  you're   only  children !      I've   had   children  of 

my  own  and  I- 'The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord 

taketh  away ' 

(But  I  mustn't  say  how  he  finished  the  sentence. 
The  next  word  commenced  wdth  a  B — )  a  Big  B ; 
but  it  wasn't  '  Blessed '  I  can  tell  you ! 

'  In  ten  minutes  I  shall  expect  you  in  the 
drawing-room.  In  ten  minutes — mind  that,'  he  said 
as  he  left  us. 

When  we  got  downstairs,  he  commenced  very 
brusquely : 

'Your  father's  debts  amount  to  £10,000 — half 
of  which  he  owed  to  me.  The  sale  has  realised  £500, 
which  I  have  placed  to  your  account — yours,  I^aura 
— at  Blotter's  Bank,  Threadneedle  Street.  I'hat's 
all  I  can  do  for  you  to  make  a  start.  I  started  with 
half-a-crown,  but  then  I'm  a  man  and  a  Jew  at  that, 
while  you — God  help  you !— are  only  girls.  Anyhow, 
the  sooner  you're  out  of  this  the  better.  I've  taken 
two  places  in  the  mail  for  London  to-morrow.  Your 
father's  and  mother's  pictures,  a  few  knick-knacks, 
and  your  trunks  will  be  sent  on  by  Pickford's  to 
your  lodgings,  19  Guildford  Street,  Russell  Square. 

A  friend  of  mine  (INIr  Seymour)  will  meet  you 
at  Golden  Cross  when  the  coach  arrives.  Off  you 
go  and  pack  up ;  and  in  view  of  that  broken  pane 
in  your  bedroom  you'd  better  sleep  at  my  place 
to-night.  Dinner  at  seven.  I'll  send  the  brougham 
round  for  you.     JMind,  seven  sharp  ! ' 

After  dinner,  over  his  cigar  and  a  bottle  of 
port,  he  opened  out. 

'  I've  been  thinking  what  you'd  better  do  for  a 
living.  You're  fourteen,  Laura ;  in  another  year 
you'll  be  a  woman — indeed,  you  are  one  already. 
As  for  you,  Carrie,  you'll  never  be  anything  but  a 

358 


VERCOZA'S   VALEDICTION 

kiddy  as  long  as  you  live ;  get  married  and  settled  ; 
there  are  lots  of  idiots  ready  to  declare  on  to  a  pretty 
face  like  yours. 

Laura,  you  had  better  go  on  the  Stage.  You 
are  a  born  actress,  and  bound  to  succeed  if  you  get 
a  chance.  It's  a  struggling,  precarious  game  at  first, 
but  if  you  get  the  blue  ribbon,  it's  glorious !  I  knew 
a  girl  once  who— —  But,  rest  her  soul,  she's  gone  ! 
Jaevah— the  barbarous,  cruel  Jaevah  ! — stole  her — - 
tore  her  from  my  arms — from  my  heart,  in  the  flower 
of  her  youth  and  beauty,  when  the  world  was  at 
her  feet.  But  the  ungrateful  world  has  forgotten 
her  very  existence — yes,  every  one  has  forgotten  her 
but  her  poor,  broken-hearted  old  Israel ! ' 

With  that,  stretching  forth  his  arms  upon  the 
table,  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands  and  crying 
'  oh,  my  love — my  lost  love  ! '  the,  hard  stern  man 
wept  like  a  child.  Presently  we  crept  timidly  up 
to  him,  put  our  arms  tenderly  round  his  neck, 
and  mingled  our  tears  with  his. 

After  a  while  he  recovered  himself,  then  rising 
erect  he  invoked  a  blessing : 

'  For  dear  old  Dick's  sake,  may  the  God  of  the 
Jew  and  the  Gentile  watch  over  you  and  protect 
you  both !  May  He  send  you  health,  wealth,  and 
prosperity,  and  keep  you  in  the  straight  path  all  the 
days  of  your  life  ! ' 

Then  he  took  us  to  his  heart,  kissed  us,  and  bade 
us  good-night. 

That  was  the  last  we  ever  saw  of  Israel  Vercoza, 
for  when  we  came  down  in  the  morning  the  house- 
keeper told  us  he  had  been  suddenly  summoned  to 
Sahsbury.  He  had  left  twenty  pounds  for  us,  and 
our  tickets  for  London,  and  instructions  for  her  to 
see  us  off  by  the  mail. 

We  ought  to  have  been  more  interested  in  our 
journey  than  we  were,  for  the  day  was  fine  and  the 
drive  delightful,  but  we  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  father  who  was  dead  and  the  friend  we  were 
about  to  lose. 

359 


,^<«BS»*3^ 


EGERIA 

When  we  arrived  at  Golden  Cross  we  found  a 
man  of  middle  age,  of  rather  distinguished  appearance 
and  most  engaging  manners,  awaiting  us. 

'  My  name  is  Seymour,  Miss  Alison,'  he  said, 
'My  friend  Vercoza  has  desired  me  to  look  after 
you.  I  knew  you  the  moment  I  saw  you  from  his 
description.     Permit  me.' 

With  that  he  handed  us  into  a  hackney  coach, 
packed  away  our  valise  and  rugs,  mounted  beside  the 
Jarvey  on  the  box,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we 
were  snugly  ensconced  in  our  comfortable  quarters 
at  Guildford  Street,  a  couple  of  rooms  on  the  fourth 
floor  at  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  Tea  was  on  the 
table,  and  we  invited  our  new  acquaintance  to 
join  us. 

Mr  Sepnour  had  travelled  much  and  had  seen 
men  and  cities ;  we  had  seen  nothing  but  Bath,  and 
were  very  glad  to  form  so  agreeable  an  acquaintance. 

He  called  frequently,  took  us  to  see  the  parks 
and  pictures,  the  Abbey  and  the  river ;  better  still, 
he  occasionally  got  orders  for  the  theatres,  and  took 
us  there.  His  attentions  were  so  tactful,  I  might 
almost  say  of  so  paternal  a  character,  that  if 
absent  for  more  than  a  day  or  two  we  began  to 
miss  him. 

I  wrote  occasionally  to  Vercoza,  and  sometimes 
received  a  hasty  scrawl  in  reply,  but  not  often. 
Meanwhile  time  moved  on  pretty  quickly,  but  no 
Prince  Charming  came  for  Carrie,  and  no  opportunity 
occurred  for  me  to  get  on  the  stage,  and  how  to  set 
about  it  I  didn't  know. 

Matters,  however,  were  shaped  for  us  by  cir- 
cumstances beyond  our  control.  First,  Mr  Seymour 
was  called  away  to  South  America,  and  we  were 
alone.  Next,  Blotter's  Bank  suspended  payment, 
and  we  were  left  penniless ! 

I  immediately  wrote  to  Vercoza,  got  no  answer ; 
wrote  again  (the  postage  of  a  country  letter  in  those 
days  was  eightpence  I).  My  letter  came  back  from 
the  Dead  Letter  Office  endorsed  'Not  delivered  in 
consequence  of  the  death  of  Mr  Vercoza.' 

360 


FANNY   KEMBLE'S   DEBUT 

We  never  knew  how  much  we  loved  our  bene- 
factor until  we  lost  him,  and  became  aware  that  we 
were  friendless  orphans  alone  in  the  world. 

Faiher's  watch  and  our  little  trinkets  had  gone 
long  ago,  then  His  and  Mother's  portraits  (which 
were  works  of  art)  had  to  go.  We  were  in  arrears 
with  oiu-  rent,  in  arrears  with  the  butcher,  the  baker, 
and  the  grocer — in  arrears  with  everybody. 

Then  came  the  struggle  for  bread  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together.  At  last  there  was  nothing  before 
us  but  the  Street  or  the  River ! 

At  the  very  moment  when  we  were  face  to  face 
with  this  awful  ftict,  the  newsvendor  in  Red  Lion 
Street  (from  whom  we  used  to  hire  the  Times  at  a 
penny  an  hour)  sent  us  over  two  free  admissions  for 
Covent  Garden  Theatre. 

It  was  Fanny  Kemble's  first  appearance.  The 
play  was  'Romeo  and  Juliet.'  Romeo,  Mr  Abbott; 
Mercutio,  Charles  Kemble ;  Lady  Capulet,  Mrs 
Kenible ;  and  Juliet,  Miss  Fanny  Kemble. 

We  had  no  dinner  that  day,  no  prospect  of  one 
for  the  next,  and  we  entered  the  huge  theatre  with 
heavy  hearts  and  empty  stomachs,  but  we  soon 
forgot  all  about  that. 

As  you  know,  John,  I  am  (save  upon  rare 
occasions)  an  extremely  matter-of-fact  person,  but 
that  night's  performance  carried  me  so  entirely  away 
that  I  forgot  everything  but  Juliet. 

I  had  learnt  the  words,  knew  them  backward, 
but  to  see  her  lovely  face,  to  hear  her  glorious  voice, 
that  was  another  thing !  When  we  left  the  theatre 
we  trod  on  air,  till  Bloomsbury  brought  us  to  earth, 
and  we  went  hungry  and  supperless  to  bed.  I 
soon  fell  asleep,  however,  and  dreamt  that  I  was 
playing  Juliet !  When  I  awoke,  it  was  midday,  the 
sun  was  shining  brightly,  the  birds  were  singing,  and 
my  spirits  rose  in  proportion.  Carrie,  poor  child, 
was  fast  asleep,  but  1  was  wide  awake,  and  my  mind 
was  made  up.  Springing  out  of  bed  I  dressed,  made 
myself  as  smart  as  I  could,  and,  sans  breakfast,  set 

361 


EGERIA 

off  for  Covent  Garden,  reached  the  stage-door,  and 
asked  to  see  Miss  Fanny  Kemble. 

The  hall  porter  demanded  if  I  had  an  appoint- 
ment. When  I  answered  '  no'  but  implored  him 
to  take  my  name  in,  the  brute  curtly  responded  with 
an  insolent  refusal.  As  I  turned  away,  heart-broken 
and  in  tears,  a  tall,  stately,  robust  gentlemen  came, 
I  must  not  say  swaggering,  but  lounging  in,  with 
a  debonnaire  grace,  as  if  the  place  belonged  to 
him — as  indeed  it  did,  for  it  was  Charles  Kemble 
himself ! 

'  Heyday,  little  woman ! '  said  he  '  What's  the 
matter,  and  who  has  been  bringing  the  tears  in  those 
pretty  eyes  ? ' 

'  Please,  sir,  I  want  to  see  Miss  Kemble.' 

'  Certainly,  so  you  shall !  Here,  tuck  yourself 
under  my  arm — no,  you're  not  big  enough  for  that — 
but  come  along,  child  ! ' 

'  With  that  he  led  me  through  the  stage-door, 
up  a  flight  of  steps,  piloted  me  across  the  great 
empty  stage,  and  took  me  to  his  daughter's 
dressing-room,  and  I  was  face  to  face  with  the 
Divinity  of  whom  all  London  was  talking  at  the 
moment.  She  swept  her  great  lustrous  eyes  over 
me  (superciliously  as  I  thought),  then  turning  wist- 
fully to  her  father,  said : 

'  Well,  father  !  what  do  the  papers  say  ? ' 

'  D — n  the  papers !  Sister  Sarah  and  Brother 
John  say  that  O'Neill  can't  hold  a  candle  to  you ! ' 

'They're  a  pair  of  old  darlings,  that's  what 
they  are,  and  I  want  to  hug  'em  both.  But' 
(somewhat  curtly)  'what's  this?' 

'  A  little  girl  wants  to  see  you.  What's  your 
name,  child  ? ' 

*  Laura  Alison,  su'.' 

'  Alison !    Alison,  eh  ?    Where  do  you  come  from  ? ' 

'Bath,  sir.' 

'  Bath !  Did  you  know  a  Doctor  of  that  name 
there  V 

'  He  was  my  father,  sir.' 

'  God  bless   my  soul  I     What  1   Dick — handsome 

362 


JULIET  AND   HER  UNDERSTUDY 

Dick.  1  knew  him  very  well  —  a  good  fellow — 
rattling  good  fellow ! 

Fan,  see  what  the  child  wants,  and  if  you 
want  me  I  shall  be  in  the  Treasury.  Mind  you 
don't  look  at  those  infernal  papers ! '  and  away 
he  strode,  leaving  me  face  to  face  with  Fanny 
Kemble. 

"She  looked  me  through  and  through  with  those 
scorchers — that  seemed  as  if  they  would  make  a  hole 
in  a  deal  board. 

*  Well,'  she  said,  '  what  do  you  want,  child  ? ' 

'  To  play  Juliet,  miss.' 

'  H'm  !     A  modest  aspiration.     So  young,  too  ! ' 

'  I'm  nearly  as  old  as  you  are.' 

Not  quite !  Besides,  you  haven't  a  father  and 
mother  like  mine  to  teach  you.' 

'  I  have  neither  father,  mother,  nor  friend.' 

'No?' 

'  So  I  thought  perhaps  that  you  would  teach  me.' 

'  Well,  I'm  sure  I ' 

'  Oh,  you  don't  know,'  I  burst  out,  *  or  you 
would  be  sony  for  us.  There  are  two  of  us 
poor  girls  alone  in  this  great  overgrown  city — 
penniless,  destitute.  I  was  here  last  night,  and  you 
set  my  blood  on  fire.  Of  course  I  can't  do  what 
you  can  do,  but  I  have  brains,  I  am  not  bad- 
looking,  I  am  honest  and  true,  and  I  can  work — 
work !  There  are  only  three  ways  open — the  Stage, 
the  Street,  or  the  River ! ' 

'  God  forbid ! 

'  If  'twere  only  myself  I  shouldn't  care.  After  all, 
a  penny  makes  one  free  of  the  Bridge,  one  plunge, 

and   then — but  she  is  too  young  to  die,  and  I 

Oh,  for  the  love  of  God !  help  us  two  helpless  young 
things ! '  I  slipped  down  on  my  knees  before  her, 
in  a  great  passion  of  tears. 

She  lifted  me  up,  kissed,  soothed,  consoled  me, 
and  led  me  forth  to  her  father's  room. 

'  Papa,'  said  she.  '  I  wish  this  young  lady  to 
be  my  understudy.  Please  put  her  down  at  two 
guineas  a  week,  and  stop  it  from  my  salary.' 

363 


EGERTA 

'  Oh  I    that    be ,'    he   burst    out  —  stopped, 

blew  his  nose  Uke  a  foghorn,  and  resumed :  '  Come 
along,  little  one.' 

'  One  moment,  father,'  and  she  whispered  him 
'  You  understand  ? ' 

'  Certainly ! ' 

'  Kiss  me  once  more,  child  ! ' 

1  dared  not ;  I  dropped  on  my  knees,  buried 
my  head  in  her  gown,  sobbing  as  if  my  poor  heart 
was  going  to  burst  out  of  my  poor  little  body. 

'  Come,  come  I '  said  she.  '  That'll  never  do 
if  you  are  to  play  Juliet.  Keep  a  good  heart,  and 
come  and  see  me  to-morrow  1 '  Then  she  lifted  me 
up  and  kissed  me,  and  consigned  me  to  her  father 
who  said,     '  Now,  little  woman,  trot.' 

With  that  he  led  me  round  to  the  Treasury, 
and  introduced  me  to  a  pompous  old  prig  with 
white  hair,  a  white  choker,  and  gold  spectacles,  to 
whom  the  great  Charles  explained  my  engagement. 

This  done,  he  led  me  to  the  vestibule.  '  By  the 
way,'  said  he,  '  my  daughter  bade  me  give  you  this,* 
and  he  handed  me  a  ten-pound  note. 

While  I  stood  dumbfounded,  unable  to  speak, 
almost  to  move,  he  continued :  '  You'd  better  come 
round  to  the  stage-door,  and  let  me  explain  to  that 
idiot  that  you  are  on  the  staff.' 

When  Cerberus  had  been  enlightened,  the 
'mirror  of  chivalry,'  as  Walter  Lacy  used  to  call 
him,  ushered  me  out. 

'  One  moment — permit  me,'  said  he  gravely,  as 
he  took  me  by  the  chin  and  kissed  me.  '  Manager's 
privilege,  my  dear!'  then,  with  a  gracious  smile, 
he  lifted  his  hat,  and  lounged  away  into  Bow 
Street.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  been  angry,  but 
I  wasn't  a  bit.  What  Mrs  Grundy  would  call  my 
wickedness  I  call  my  naturalness.  I  felt  flattered, 
and  I  am  flattered  now — now  that  1  am  an  old 
woman — to  think  that  once  in  my  life  I  was  kissed 
by  Charles  Kemble  1 

I  didn't  walk,  I  ran  home,  jumped  up  the  four 
flights   of  stairs   in   a   gallop.      '  Carrie,    Carrie ! '    I 

364 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   KEMBLES ! 

cried,  '  our  fortune's  made  !  He  kissed  nie  !  Yes  ! 
Charles  Kemble  kissed  me — kissed  me,  think  of  that ! 
Fanny  Kemble  hugged  me,  and  gave  me  this,'  and 
I  flourished  my  ten-pound  note ;  *  and  I'm  the 
happiest  girl  in  the  universe,  for  I'm  her  understudy 
at  Covent  Garden  ! ' 

The  good  news  cured  Carrie  of  her  megrims. 
She  sprang  out  of  bed  like  lightning,  and  oh !  what 
a  tea-fight  we  had  in  the  next  half-hour. 

There,  sir!  I've  told  you  an  incident  of  my 
life  never  related  to  any  human  being  before,  not 
even  to  Charles !  You  may  tell  it  again  when  I'm 
dead  and  gone,  but  if  you  tell  it  before  I'll  never 
forgive  you ! 

Have  you  had  enough,  or  do  you  care  about 
any  more  ? ' 

'  More  ?  Ever  so  much  !  More  ?  Ifs  delightful 
Go  on,  go  on,  please  I ' 

'  l^'^ell,  of  course,  I  went  to  the  Theatre  daily  and 
nightly.  Miss  Kemble  was  kind  enough  to  coach 
me  up  in  Juliet,  so  that  I  might  be  ready  in  an 
emergency  to  take  her  place ;  but,  unfortunately, 
I  never  had  the  chance. 

When  ultimately  she  and  her  father  went  to 
America— where,  worse  luck !  the  poor  dear  became 
Mrs  Butler !— Mr  Abbott,  and  Mr  Egerton  (another 
important  member  of  the  Covent  Garden  company) 
opened  the  new  Victoria  Theatre — so  called  after 
the  Princess  Victoria — and,  through  knowing  these 
gentlemen  at  the  Garden  I  was  engaged  at  the 
Victoria,  and  that  was  how  I  came  to  play  Juhet 
before  the  Queen ! 

I  suppose  you  thought  me  very  rude  that  night, 
at  the  '  Vick.'  Well,  the  fact  is,  I  was  awfully 
upset.  To  begin  with,  I  left  the  dear  old  place  a 
Palace,  and  found  it — a  pig-sty ;  and  you  may 
imagine  what  a  shock  I  had  when  I  recognised  in 
that  poor  lost  creature,  that  dreadful  demon  barber, 
my  Romeo  of  forty  years  ago ! ' 

'Really!' 

365 


EGERIA 

'  When  we  first  met  he  was  the  beau  ideal  of  the 
part,  elegant,  handsome,  accomplished,  a  gentleman 
from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot. 
He  loved  me,  too, — loved  me  very  dearly, — loved 
me  far  more  than  I  loved  him. 

We  were  both  miserably  poor  :  he  had  a  widowed 
mother  to  support,  and  I  had  Carrie  to  look  after, 
so  when  Abbott  and  Egerton  retired,  poor  Bob 
obtained  an  engagement  in  Edinburgh ;  while  1  was 
glad  to  get  in  anywhere  to  earn  a  crust  and  a  frock. 

Well,  he  went  one  way,  I  went  another,  and 
we  never  met  again  till  that  awful  night !  When 
he  lost  me  the  poor  soul  took  to  drink,  and  would 
have  gone  straight  down  to  the  pit  if  she  hadn't 
come  to  the  rescue.  She's  a  charming  creature, 
and  you  must  see  what  you  can  do  for  her.  But, 
dear !  dear !  I've  almost  got  to  the  end  of  my  story 
before  I've  begun  it. 

Although  fate  was  so  unkind  to  me,  at  this  veiy 
time  Carrie  met  her  Prince  Charming,  a  clever  young 
Scotsman,  who  ultimately  blossomed  into  a  meenister 
of  the  Kirk,  and  she  became  the  Lady  Bountiful  of 

the  Manse  of  K ,  whilst  I  was  left  to  fight  the 

battle  of  life  single-handed. 

I  had  two  or  three  short  engagements  at  Mar- 
gate and  Worthing,  where,  by-the-by,  I  met  your 
friend  Phelps,  and  returned  to  town  to  try  to  get 
a  berth  for  the  winter. 

I  had  barely  got  back  to  my  old  diggin's  in 
Guildford  Street,  when,  to  my  astonishment — I  may 
say,  to  my  delight — Mr  Seymour  was  announced  ! 

He  had  just  returned  from  South  America,  and 
had  been  very  successful  in  something  which  I 
couldn't  quite  understand,  connected  with  a  quick- 
silver mine. 

He  was  more  attentive  and  more  obliging  than 
ever.  He  took  me  out  to  dinner  daily  and  to  the 
theatre  nightly,  and  in  my  loneliness  he  was  a  link 
with  Carrie,  with  Vercoza,  and  the  dear  old  Dad. 

Finding  that  I  could  get  nothing  to  do  in  town, 
and   learning  that   Macready   was  going  to  Dublin 

366 


"THE   GREAT   MAC!" 

to  begin  the  season  with  Calcraft,  with  my  usual 
audacity  I  went  boldly  to  Cambridge  Terrace  and 
sent  in  my  card  to  'the  great  Mac'  You  remember 
him  ? ' 

'  Perfectly  ! ' 

'Well,  then,  you  know,  he  wasn't  handsome, 
had  the  most  nondescript  nose,  the  squarest  jowls, 
the  bluest-black  scrubbing-brush  of  a  beard  ;  but  you 
must  also  know  he  had  the  most  gracious,  winning, 
dignified  manner  it  is  possible  to  conceive.' 

'  He  had  I  he  had  ! ' 

'  I  explained  my  business,  told  him  I  had  played 
Juliet  at  the  'Vick,'  that  Fanny  Kemble  had 
coached  me,  incidentally  mentioned  that  I  came 
from  Bath.  Fortunately^  He  also  remembered 
Father,  promised  to  exert  his  influence  to  obtain 
me  an  engagement — kept  his  word,  and  actually 
offered  to  escort  me  to  Dublin. 

When  Mr  Seymour  heard  this,  he  warned  me 
to  be  careful,  alleging  that  '  Mac '  was  a  dangerous 
person.  I  retorted  that  I  was  seventeen  and  quite 
capable  of  taking  care  of  myself. 

'You  are  so  young  and  don't  understand,' 
persisted  Seymour,  'and,  if  you'll  permit  me,  /'// 
escort  you.' 

'  Thanks,'  I  replied,  I  fear  somewhat  ungra- 
ciously, '  I've  already  accepted  JMr  Macready's 
invitation.     Good-bye.' 

'  Good-bye.  Bon  voyage,  and  great  good  luck  ! ' 
said  Seymour,  curtly,  as  he  coldly  bowed  himself  out. 

Macready  met  me  at  Euston  Square,  put  me  in  a 
ladies'  compartment,  tucked  my  rugs  carefully  round 
me,  and  gave  me  a  book  in  a  green  cover  (a 
number  of  '  Pickwick,'  I  think).  My  companions 
were  two  spiteful  old  tabbies,  who  barked  and 
wheezed,  took  snufF,  and  talked  scandal  all  the 
way.  I  wished  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and 
I  wished — yes,  I  did  wish — that  Mac  had  been  there 
instead ! 

When  we  got  to  Holyhead  he  looked  after  my 
luggage,  got  me  aboard  the  packet,  stood  me  lunch 

367 


EGERIA 

and  champagne,  and  gave  me  in  charge  of  the 
stewardess.  I  got  over  without  turning  a  hair. 
When  we  reached  Dubhn  the  dear  thing  packed 
me  and  my  luggage  on  to  a  jaunting-car,  escorted 
me  to   lodgings   which   he   had   secured    for   me   in 

Queen's  Square,  bade  me  *  Good-night,'  and no, 

sir,  he  didn't — at  least,  not  then ! 

I  played  Desdemona,  Ophelia,  A'irginia,  and 
Aspasia,  in  '  The  Bridal '  and  got  on  very  well,  con- 
sidering my  youth  and  inexperience. 

On  his  last  night  Mac  sent  for  me  to  his  dressing- 
room,  talked  to  me  hke  a  father,  promised  not  to 
lose  sight  of  me,  told  me  to  be  a  good  girl,  bade  me 
good-bye,  and  then — yes,  then — I'm  happy  to  say 
He  Did  !     Ah  !  He  was  a  darling  ! 

After  Him  came  A^^illiam  Farren,  who  had 
commenced  his  career  in  Dublin,  and  who  now 
returned  to  star  in  his  great  parts — Sir  Peter,  Lord 
Ogleby,  Sir  Anthony,  etc.  But  the  Dublin  people 
didn't  seem  to  care  about  him ;  anyhow,  they  never 
came  to  see  him. 

I  played  Lady  Teazle,  Fanny  Sterling,  Lydia 
Languish,  and  sympathised  with  him  about  the  bad 
houses.  My  sympathy  quite  won  his  heart,  and  he 
promised  to  use  his  influence  to  get  me  an  engage- 
ment at  the  Haymarket,  and  he — yes,  if  you  only 
humoured  him  a  bit — was  a  most  courtly  old  young 
gentleman ! 

By-and-by  came  Charles  Kean,  to  whom  I  also 
played  Desdemona,  Ophelia,  and  Lady  Anne.  He 
was  almost  as  delightful  as  Macready.  Yes,  he  was  a 
Prince,  but  Mac  was  a  King — ay,  every  inch  a  King ! 

I  used  to  ask  Charlie  to  come  and  take  tea, 
but  free  and  easy  as  I  was  with  him,  I  should  as 
soon  ha^e  thought  of  inviting  Cardinal  Wiseman  or 
Daniel  O'Connell  as  of  asking  Macready  to  take  tea 
in  my  little  back  parlour. 

I  was  not  always  so  reticent.  In  those  days  I 
was  sometimes  a  very  imp  of  mischief;  indeed,  a 
stupid,  practical  joke  of  mine  got  me  my  conge  from 
Dubhn. 

368 


HOP-O'-MY-THUMB ! 

Of  course  I  needn't  tell  you  that  it  was  cus- 
tomary for  every  one  to  assist  in  the  Witches'  music 
in  '  Macbeth,'  the  choruses  in  '  Rob  Roy,'  The 
Chough  and  Crow  in  '  Guy  Mannering,'  and  the 
music  of  '  Pizarro.' 

Although  we  had  a  trained  company  of  prin- 
cipal vocalists,  we  had  all  (without  exception)  to 
assist  in  '  Masaniello,'  which  was  done  on  a  very 
grand  scale.  We  had  a  detachment  of  soldiers  from 
the  Castle  for  the  military,  and  a  pompous  httle 
prig  who  had  seen  the  Opera  at  Her  Majesty's 
and  pretended  to  know  all  about  it,  volunteered  to 
lead  the  Lazzaroni  in  their  attack  on  the  Neapolitan 
troops. 

The  little  wretch  was  head  cook  and  bottle- 
washer  in  the  front  of  the  house,  and  when  I  met 
him  in  the  Treasury  his  usual  salutation  was :  '  Well, 
and  what  can  I  do  for  you  to-day,  my  lovely  little 
Laura  ? '  to  which  I  invariably  responded  :  '  Nothing, 
thank  you,  Mr  Hop-o'-my-Thumb ! ' 

Having  only  a  pair  of  apologies  for  legs,  the 
creature  had  recourse  to  art  to  supply  the  deficiency, 
and  when  he  appeared  in  the  Green-room  with  his 
bandy  shins  and  Brobdignagian  calves,  which  put 
to  shame  his  Lilliputian  body,  he  was  the  most 
grotesque  object  ever  seen  outside  a  waxwork  show. 

Strutting  on  the  stage  flourishing  a  dragoon's 
sabre  as  big  as  himself,  he  led  his  Lazzaroni  to  the 
charge  and  overthrew  the  military  (all  of  whom  were 
six-footers),  and  when  he  sprang  triumphant  to  the 
central  eminence,  as  who  should  say,  '  Alone  I  did 
it ! '  the  effect  was  ludicrous  beyond  description. 

As  he  stood  there  like  Ajax  defying  the  light- 
ning and  the  act  drop  descended  a  mischievous  idea 
occurred  to  me. 

My  hair  came  down  to  my  heels  in  those  days, 
and  I  had  to  tuck  it  up  with  a  huge  pair  of  pins 
attached  to  each  other  by  a  gold  chain  and  a  pair 
of  ornamental  knobs  as  red  and  as  big  as  strawberries. 

The  temptation  was  irresistible ;  so,  plucking 
the  pins  out  of  my  hair,  I  deftly  stuck  them  into 
2  a  369 


EGERIA 

Tappertit's  calves,  just  as  the  curtain  rose  for  the 
recall. 

When  the  gods  caught  sight  of  these  ornamental 
appendages,  one  of  them  inquired:  'Docthor,  dear 
docthor,  have  your  calves  gone  to  grass  in  a  jeweller's 
shop  ? ' 

At  the  enquiry  '  the  doctor '  indignantly  darted 
forward,  his  legs  became  entangled,  and  down  he 
tumbled  on  his  nose.  To  make  matters  worse  he 
fell  outside  the  curtain,  and  when  he  arose,  struggling 
to  get  off,  there  arose  a  succession  of  yells  which 
might  have  been  heard  at  Clontarf. 

'  IViat  was  a  cr^uel  joke  ! ' 

'  I  suppose  it  was  ;  but  really,  I  couldn't  resist  it.* 

^  His  legs  were  his  misfortune  not  his  fault.' 

'  But  they  were  so  funny  ! ' 

'  To  you— but  not  to  kirn.'' 

'  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  Anyhow  he'd  the 
best  of  it  at  the  finish.  That  joke  cost  me  my 
engagement.' 

*  And  made  you  an  enemy  for  life.  Tve  heard 
the  '  doctor '  tell  the  story.  He  has  never  forgiven 
you — and  never  willf 

*  I  know !  I've  tried  to  mollify  him  more  than 
once,  but  the  hateful  little  beast  is  inexorable. 

Well,  from  Dublin  I  went  to  your  precious 
York  circuit,  where  I  met  your  friend  Gustavu^ 
Brooke,  dear,  good-looking,  blundering,  "nKvable 
Gussy. 

I  was  still  a  girl — so,  girl  and  boy  (he  wore  a 
jacket  then  and  a  collar  like  an  Eton  boy),  we  used 
to  go  out  together  blackberrying,  and  stuff  the  ripe 
fruit  into  each  other's  mouths.  He  was  desperately 
'  gone '  on  me  and  I  was  near  falling  in  love  with 
him  ;  but  there  was  a  mother  and  sister  who  asserted 
a  proprietory  right,  and,  as  I  should  have  wanted  him 
all  to  myself,  that  little  affair  fell  through,  and  1 
went  to  Scotland  to  see  how  Carrie  was  getting  on. 
I  found  her  and  her  Prince  Charming  very  happy, 
but  a  little  of  the  Manse  went  a  long  way  with  me, 
and  I  was  impatient  to  get  back  to  town,  for  it  was 

370 


CHARLES   KEAN'S   "RICHARD  " 

time  to  be  looking  out  for  an  engagement  for  the 
ensuing  season. 

During  my  absence  I  had  kept  in  touch  with 
Seymour,  sent  him  an  occasional  newspaper  with  a 
notice  or  a  play-bill,  and  when  I  sent  word  I  was 
coming  back,  he  met  me  at  Euston  Square.  As  we 
drove  along  he  told  me  he  thought  it  desirable  for  me 
to  be  in  the  centre  to  look  after  my  engagements, 
so  he  had  taken  rooms  for  me  exactly  opposite 
Drury  Lane  Theatre ;  in  fact,  the  very  identical 
rooms  occupied  by  Harriet  JSlellon  when  old  Coutts 
the  banker  used  to  come  and  take  tea  with  her. 

'  Well,  then,  you  shall  come  and  take  tea  with 
me  now,'  said  I. 

'  Delighted  ! '  he  replied. 

We  had  not  met  for  a  long  time,  and,  as  he 
was  anxious  to  know  what  I  had  been  doing,  how 
I  got  on,  etc.,  the  evening  passed  pleasantly  and 
quickly. 

On  the  morrow  I  began  to  look  out  for  an  en- 
gagement. William  FaiTcn  tried  to  get  an  opening 
for  me  at  the  Haymarket,  but  with  Helen  Faucit, 
Mary  Huddart,  Ellen  Tree,  Louisa  Nisbett,  and 
Priscilla  Horton,  they  didn't  want  poor  little  me ! 

Charles  Kean  was  going  to  open  at  the  Lane 
with  '  Richard  the  Third,'  so  I  di^opped  a  line 
asking  him  to  come  and  take  tea. 

He  came  that  very  afternoon,  when  without  cir- 
cumlocution I  asked  him  to  get  me  in  for  Lady  Anne. 
He  tried  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but  couldn't 
manage  it,  the  part  being  already  in  possession. 

He  used  to  give  me  a  look  in,  nearly  every 
morning,  and  brought  me  a  bushel  of  orders  for 
his  opening  night. 

The  day  before  his  debut,  a  porter  came  round 
from  Covent  Garden  with  a  huge  basket  of  fi-uit 
and  flowers  and  laurels,  with  Charley's  compli- 
ments, and  when  he  came  in  the  afternoon  we 
ate  the  fruit,  and  he  asked  me  to  get  the  flowers 
and  the  laurels  made  up  into  bouquets  and  wreaths, 
and  to  come  and  'give  a  hand.' 

371 


EGERIA 

He  was  a  dear,  kind  fellow,  so,  of  course,  I 
got  two  or  three  friends  to  help  me  in  pelting  him 
with  roses  and  laurel  wi-eaths ;  in  fact,  we  made 
him  an  ovation. 

Seymour,  who  accompanied  me,  remarked  rather 
grimly :  '  Pelting  a  man  with  flowers  doesn't  appeal 
to  me.  As  a  matter  of  taste,  I  should  prefer  to  pelt 
a  woman,  especially  if  that  woman  happened  to  be 
you,  Laura ! ' 

Yes  !  he  called  me  Laura  I  It  was  the  first  time 
he  ever  did  so,  and  that  set  me  thinking. 

He  had  been  my  only  friend  and  acquaintance 
when,  but  a  girl  of  fourteen,  I  was  alone,  literally 
alone,  in  London  I 

You,  who  have  been  through  that  ordeal,  know 
the  depth  of  desolation  which  it  means. 

For  free  and  easy,  undiluted  selfishness,  com- 
mend me  to  a  woman.  Oh  yes,  I  admit  it,  though 
I  am  a  woman  myself  1  We  take  all  the  help,  aU 
the  sympathy  we  can  get,  from  a  man  who  happens 
to   be   a   man    and   not   a   scoundrel,   but    when   it 

comes   to ! '      But   I   needn't   tell  you,  sir — I'll 

go  bail  you  know  all  about  it ! 

Well,  poor  Seymour  was  old  enough  to  be  my 
father,  consequently  it  had  never  once  occurred  to 
me  that  he  ever  could  dream  of  being  anything 
more  than  my  slave  and  servant,  to  fetch  and 
carry  at  my  beck  and  call !  I  am  a  peculiar  person, 
and  have  never  met  my  '  affinity,'  as  the  Doctor 
calls  a  sweetheart.  If  I  had,  I  should  have  been 
furiously,  madly  in  love,  desperately  jealous,  and, 
consequently,  deplorably  unhappy.  Had  I  seen  my 
man  looking  at  another  woman  I  should  have  killed 
them  both  there  and  then,  and  so,  fortunately,  I 
never  did  meet  my  '  affinity ' — fortunately  for  him, 
and  still  more  fortunately  for  the  '  other  woman.' 

I  had  been  out  of  an  engagement  for  some 
months,  and  had  reached  my  last  shilhng,  and 
knew  not  where  to  turn,  when  one  day  Mr  Seymour 
turned  up  and,  in  great  embarrassment,  informed  me 

372 


AN  ACCOUNT  AT   COUTT'S 

that  he  had  taken  the  Hberty  to  open  an  account 
for  me  at  Coiitts'  bank  for  £1000  !  Placing  a  pass- 
book on  the  table,  with  the  amount  duly  entered 
to  my  credit,  he  told  me  to  go  and  get  a  cheque- 
book, and  wi-ite  my  signature  in  the  bank-book. 
When  he  had  blurted  this  out  he  '  bolted '  before 
I  could  reply.  After  that  I  didn't  see  him  for  a 
fortnight. 

I  tried  hard  to  keep  from  breaking  into  that 
money,  but  I  was  in  arrears  at  my  lodgings,  and 
owed  a  milhner's  bill  which  could  no  longer  be  put 
off;  besides,  I  had  a  robust  appetite,  and  hadn't 
learnt  to  live  without  eating !  There  was  no  help 
for  it ;  so  down  I  went  to  Coutts,  saw  the  manager, 
who  was  very  gracious,  and  when  I  told  him  I  lived 
in  the  rooms  formerly  occupied  by  Harriet  JNIellon 
he  became  much  interested,  for  he  remembered  her, 
both  as  Mrs  Coutts  and  Duchess  of  St  Albans.  He 
had  the  book  brought  into  his  own  room,  told  me 
where  to  sign  my  name,  gave  me  a  cheque-book, 
rang  the  bell  for  the  porter  to  call  me  a  cab,  and 
wished  me  'good  morning.' 

After  all,  it  was  pleasant  to  be  able  to  sign 
a  cheque  once  more,  so  I  paid  my  aiTcars  and  my 
milliner's  bill. 

Another  week  and  another  —  still  no  sign  of 
Seymour.  I\Iy  heart  smote  me.  I  took  a  cab  and 
drove  to  his  '  diggins '  (a  swell  place  in  St  James's), 
and  found  the  poor  fellow  prostrate  with  fever, 
and  disposed  to  be  delirious.  What  could  a 
woman  with  a  woman's  heart  in  her  body  do  ? ' 

'  JVliy^  nurse  kim^  to  he  sure ! ' 

'  That's  exactly  what  I  did.  The  doctor  pre- 
scribed change  of  air,  so,  as  soon  as  my  poor  patient 
was  fit  to  be  moved,  I  took  him  down  to  Brighton 
and  trundled  him  about  in  a  bath-chair  on  the 
parade. 

Just  as  he  was  getting  better,  I  had  an  offer 
for  Braham's  new  theatre  in  St  James's. 

Ever  heard  John  Braham  sing  ? ' 

*  Yes ;   tivice  or  thrice  before  he  7^etired.' 

373 


EGERIA 

*  Yoii  should  have  heard  him  when  I  did. 
Mario,  Guighni,  Sims  Reeves,  were  not  'in  it '  with 
him.  /  heard  him  in  '  Waft  her,  angels,  gently '  in 
*Jephthah,'  in  '  The  Echo  Duet'  in  'Guy  Mannering,' 
'  The  Bay  of  Biscay,'  and  '  The  Death  of  Nelson  ! ' 
There  never  was  anything  like  it  —  never  will  be 
again. 

He'd  made  a  heap  of  money  by  his  voice,  but 
ultimately  lost  it  all  in  bricks  and  mortar.' 

'  Before  his  time,  like  the  rest  of  us ! ' 

'  He  had  large,  speculative  ideas ;  so,  not  content 
with  building  the  St  James's,  he  must  needs  erect 
that  wilderness,  the  Coliseum  in  Regent's  Park,  with 
the  intention  of  working  both  establishments  with 
the  same  forces.  We  had  a  pretty  good  company. 
John  Webster,  Alfred  Wigan  (who  then  called  him- 
self Sidney),  Wright,  that  spiteful  cat  Fanny  Stirling, 
myself,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  others. 

When  we  had  finished  at  one  place  we  slipped 
into  a  coach,  which  was  waiting  at  the  door,  to  whisk 
us  off  to  the  other. 

Din-ing  the  time  I  was  with  the  old  gentleman 
I  became  acquainted  with  all  his  family.  The 
Countess  was  most  kind,  the  old  boy  was  like  a 
father,  and  the  three  other  boys — Gus,  Hamilton,  and 
Ward — were  like  brothers  to  me.  It  was  quite  a 
little  family  party. 

At  the  end  of  the  season  at  the  St  James's, 
Macready  got  me  a  berth  at  the  Haymarket.  It 
was  not  a  very  good  one,  but  he  advised  me  to  take 
it  and  promised  to  do  the  best  he  could  for  me. 

The  great  feature  of  his  engagement  was  '  The 
Bridal,'  a  play,  which,  I  dare  say  you  know,  he  and 
Sheridan  Knowles  between  them,  had  adapted  from 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  '  Maid's  Tragedy.' 

Mac  had  already  tried  it  in  Dublin,  where  he 
had  made  a  great  mark  in  Melantius,  and  I  had 
been  more  fortunate  in  Aspasia  than  in  any  other 
character  I  attempted. 

When  the  cast  was  put  up,  to  my  great  grief 
I  found   that   Miss  Taylor  (afterwards  Mrs  Walter 

374 


ASPASIA 

Lacy),  was  in  for  my  part,  and  I  was  left  in  the 
cold.  I  went  to  Mac  and  bewailed  my  hard  fate ; 
he  was  very  sympathetic,  and  assured  me  that  he 
would  get  me  an  opportunity  of  playing  the  part 
for  a  night  or  two  at  anyrate,  and  advised  me  to 
go  and  see  about  my  boy's  dress  so  as  to  be  pre- 
pared at  a  moment's  notice. 

Buoyed  up  by  this  assurance,  off  I  went  to  the 
wardrobe-keeper,  who  threw  all  kinds  of  difficulties 
in  my  way,  and  at  last  produced  a  filthy  old  rag 
that  would  have  disgraced  a  show  at  a  fair." 

'  It's  the  original  Zamora  dress,'  said  he.  '  Take 
it  or  leave  it,  miss —  all's  one  to  me.' 

'  I  did  take  it,  and  went  straight  to  Macready's 
room.  There  were  three  strange  gentlemen  there, 
and  I  felt  de  trop,  but,  as  usual,  Mac  was  most 
gracious. 

'  Come  in,  little — er — woman,'  he  said.  '  Allow 
me  to  introduce  three — er — friends  of  mine.  JNlr 
Forster,  Mr  Machse,  and — er — Mr  Charles  Dickens. 
This  is  Miss  Alison,  a  protegee  of  mine  from — er — 
Dublin.' 

'  For  once  my  audacity  deserted  me,  and  I  felt 
as  if  I  must  sink  through  the  floor. 

*Why,  what  in  the  name  of — er — fate  have  you 
got — er — there  ? '  he  inquired,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
the  Zamora  rag. 

'  Oh,  please,  sir,  it  is — no — no — I — didn't  know, 
I  never  thought ' 

'  Nonsense !  Let's  have  a  peep,'  and  he  caught 
hold  of  the  wretched  thing  and  held  it  up  at  arms 
length  between  his  finger  and  thumb. 

'  Gracious — er — God  I     What's  this  ? ' 

*  My  Aspasia  dress,  sir.' 

'  His  disgust,  my  aversion,  and  the  horrid  thing 
itself,  evidently  tickled  the  fancy  of  the  visitors,  for 
they  burst  into  uncontrollable  laughter — so  did  he. 
As  for  me,  I  burst  out  crying.  '  Do  you  tliink  I 
could  go  on  in  a  thing  like  that,  sir  ? '  I  gasped. 

'  Certainly  not,  child.  Here,  Lander,  take  this 
—  er  —  er  —  to    the  —  er  — wardrobe    and    tell    the 

375 


EGERIA 

rascally  tailor  to  send  it  to  —  er  —  Vinegar  Yard  ! 
Maclise,  Miss  Alison  has  to  be  a — er — boy  in  'The 
Bridal.'  Can't  we  manage  something  better  for  her 
than  that  infernal — er — thing  ? ' 

*I  should  think  so,  indeed.  Lend  me  a  pencil 
and  a  sheet  of  paper.     Allow  me,  Miss — Miss ' 

'Alison,  sir.' 

Then  the  great  painter  made  a  rapid  sketch, 
took  some  notes  about  colours  and  combinations, 
promising  to  send  Macready  the  complete  design 
by  mid -day  on  the  morrow. 

Next  night  he  sent  for  me  to  his  room,  where 
the  wardrobe-keeper  was  awaiting  me,  subdued  and 
chapfallen. 

'  Here  is  your  costume — er —  my  dear,'  said  Mac, 
showing  me  the  loveliest  design  in  blue,  and  white 
and  gold. 

'Now  measure  Miss  —  er  —  Alison,  sir.  Let  it 
be  tried  on  to-morrow  night,  and  let  me  see  it 
before  it  is — er — made  up.' 

Next  night  I  dressed  in  my  own  room,  'put 
'em — ahem ! — on,'  Avrapped  myself  up  in  my  cloak, 
and  went  round  to  Macready  at  the  end  of  '  Ion,' 

'  Gracious — er — God  ! '  he  growled,  '  you  are  as 
broad  as  you  are — er — long  !  Do  you  understand 
you  are — er — a  boy— do  you  hear  ? — a — er — ^boy, 
not  a  tub  !  And — er — stays,  too — stays  !  Is  the 
child  mad  ?  Go  behind  the — er — screen  yonder  and 
take  'em  off !  Take  'em  off  directly !  That'll  do ! 
Now  you  look  like  a  Christian ! '  Then,  addressing 
the  costumier,  who  awaited  orders — '  Observe  ! — I 
don't  want  the  skirt  down  to  the  heels — no,  sir,  nor 
— er — up  to  the  hips  ! 

This  girl  is  a  boy,  sir.  No,  no !  —  you  know 
what  I  mean.  Now,  a  boy  has  legs.  Good  God  I 
what  is  the  idiot  laughing  at  ?  There  is  nothing  to 
laugh  at  in  a — er — leg,  but  everything  to  admire. 
It's  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  mechanism  on — er — 
God's  earth,  and  it  is  a — er — profanation  to — er — 
spoil  it. 

The   skirt  must   descend   to    within   an   inch   of 

376 


A   RUINED   MAN 

the — er — knee.     Do  you  hear  me,  su-  ?     Within  an 
inch  of  the — er — patella ! 

And  —  ahem  !  Miss  Alison,  no  feminine  non- 
sense about  your  hair.  Of  course  it  ought  to  be 
— er— cropped,  but  that  would  be — er — sacrilege  ; 
so  let  it  tumble  down  about  your — er — shoulders, 
and  leave  it  free  to  sink  or  swell,  as — er — nature 
pleases. 

Now,  sir,  you  have  your — er — instructions?  Very 
well,  then.  Put  the  dress  down  to — er — me  !  Allow 
me,  little  woman,'  and  he  slipped  the  cloak  over  me. 
'  Good  God  !  what  an  ass  I  am  becoming  !  I  forgot 
the — er — thingamys  behind  the  screen.  There,  there, 
I  am  not  looking  !  Good-night  I  Mind,  I  rely^ — yes, 
I   rely   on — er — you  ! ' 

After  all  these  years  I  recall  with  gratitude  that, 
thanks  to  Mac's  good  offices,  I  got  my  chance  and 
made  the  most  of  it. 

"  I  have  that  dress  now.  It  wears  better  than 
I  do.  No  wonder !  for  it  hasn't  had  so  much 
knocking  about,  and  I  keep  it  wrapped  up  in  tissue 
paper.  Sometimes  I  take  it  out  to  have  a  look  at 
it,  and  then  I  think,  yes  I  do  think  I  was  worth 
looking  at  in  those  days ! 

Anyhow,  Charles  Reade  thought  so  when  he  first 
saw  me  in  that  dress,  and  the  impression  served  to 
keep  my  memory  green  for  fifteen  years ;  a  long 
time  for  a  man,  especially  that  man,  to  remember ! 

During  the  run  of  '  The  Bridal '  I  was  fortunate 
enougli  to  interest  an  enterprising  American  manager, 
who  proposed  a  trip  to  the  States.  I  consulted 
Seymour,  who  advised  its  acceptance.  I  asked  him 
to  take  the  matter  in  hand,  and  gave  him  carfe- 
blanche  to  make  arrangements.  He  was  a  thorough 
man  of  business,  had  been  in  America,  and  got  me 
five  times  as  much  as  I  could  have  got  for  myself. 

As  the  time  approached  for  my  departure  he 
absented  himself  for  a  whole  month.  I  was  afraid 
a  relapse  had  occurred,  so  I  called  at  his  rooms. 
The  landlady  and  I  had  got  on  terms  of  friendly 
intimacy  dm-ing  his  illness,  and  she  let  the  cat  out 

377 


EGERIA 

of  the  bag.  He  had  had  an  awful  run  of  luck  on 
the  Stock  Exchange,  and  was  a  ruined  man !  He 
had  given  up  his  swell  rooms  and  was  living  in 
a  garret  in  the  mews  at  the  back.  I  waited  to  hear 
no  more,  but  hurried  out,  hurried  in,  and  demanded, 
nay,  insisted  on  being  shown  to  him.  I  found  him 
dreadfully  depressed,  bullied  him,  soothed  him,  pro- 
posed to  him,  married  him  next  morning  at  a  registry 
office,  and  we  sailed  to  America  a  week  later ! " 

'  Vou  loved  him  then,  after  all  ? ' 

'  Not  a  bit !  No  more  than  I  love  you  !  AVe 
were  comrades,  that  was  all.  He  had  been  a  right 
down  good  friend  to  me  when  I  was  in  trouble ; 
he  was  in  trouble  now,  and  how  could  I  leave  him 
high  and  dry  in  his  misfortune  ? 

Thanks  to  his  industry  and  sagacity,  more  than 
to  my  ability,  we  made  a  heap  of  money  in  America. 

At  one  time  I  had  almost  grown  to  love  him 
— that  was  when   my  baby  was  born ;  and  had  she 

lived,  perhaps  I  might but  when  she  was  taken 

from  me,  and  when  the  doctors  forbade  me  ever  to 
hope  that  another  could  come  to  take  the  place  of 
the  treasiu'e  T  had  lost,  I  was  tempted  to  repeat 
A^ercoza's  sublime  blasphemy ! 

You  cannot  realise  what  a  childless  mother  feels 
when  she  sees  in  every  other  street  some  dirty 
drunken  drab  of  the  gutter,  with  perchance  half-a- 
dozen  half-clad  starvelings  clinging  to  her  skirts, 
and  following  her  down  to  perdition,  while  she,  poor 
soul,  is  condemned  to — but  there  !  there  !  what  is  the 
use  of  speaking  to  a  man  of  something  he  cannot 
comprehend  ? 

There  is  another  thing  a  man  can't  comprehend : 
he  can  never  realise  that  it  is  possible  for  men  and 
women  to  be  friends  and  comrades  and  nothing 
more.  You  know  how  Charles  Reade  and  I  first 
became  acquainted  ? 

'  Yes: 

'  Well,  my  husband  and  I  always  hated  lodgings, 
so  when  we  returned  from  America  we  took  a 
house  in  Jermyn  Street. 

378 


THE  MEENISTER 

We  had  made  money  in  the  States  and  didn't 
want  to  lose  it,  so  we  concluded  if  we  could  meet 
two  or  three  agreeable  people  we  would  get  them  to 
share  with  us  in  housekeeping.  Seymour  brought 
in  Captain  Curling,  who  was  an  old  chum  of  his.  I 
introduced  Augustus  Braham,  who  was  an  old  friend 
of  mine.  Then  came  Charles  Reade.  Each  con- 
tributed his  quota  to  the  household  expenses,  and 
for  a  considerable  time  we  formed  a  united  and 
happy  family. 

After  a  year  or  two,  however,  the  Countess  got 
Gussy  a  Government  appointment  at  Portsmouth, 
and  that  was  the  first  gap  in  our  little  family 
circle. 

After  another  year  or  two  Seymour  died.  Dear 
old  chap,  '  he  was  wery  good  to  me,  he  was ! '  as  the 
boy  says  in  "  Bleak  House." 

At  his  death  1  remained  and  kept  house  for 
Reade  and  Curling  until  he  also  took  it  into  his 
head  to  follow  my  poor  Seymour,  and  Reade  and 
I  were  left  alone. 

Then  Carrie  and  her  husband  came  immediately 
to  town.  He  talked  to  me  like  a  father  and  a 
'  JNIeenister  of  the  Kirk.'  '  If  you  continue  to  re- 
side under  the  same  roof  alone  with  a  single  man, 
especially  as  that  man  happens  to  be  a  novelist  and 
a  writer  of  profane  stage  plays,'  said  he,  '  'twill 
create  scandal ! '  Carrie  reminded  me  that  she  was 
*  my  only  living  relative,  that  my  room  was  ready 
at  the  manse,  and  that  I  should  there  find  a  peace- 
ful retreat  from  the  dissipations  of  the  wicked 
world.' 

I  was  silenced  though  not  convinced,  but  '  blood 
is  thicker  than  water'  after  all,  so  I  made  up  my 
gigantic  mind  to  retire  to  Scotland  as  soon  as  1 
could  get  my  traps  ready. 

There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  seen  to :  furniture, 
linen,  pictures,  and  plate  to  be  disposed  of.  The 
'  Meenister '  undertook  to  arrange  with  Reade  while 
Carrie  and  I  went  to  see  the  agent  to  get  the  house 
off  my  hands. 

379 


EGERIA 

It  was  the  end  of  the  season  and  a  bad  time, 
he  told  us,  but  he'd  do  his  best. 

"  When  we  returned  the  Meenister,  with  great 
complacency,  told  us  he'd  settled  everything  with 
the  Doctor. 

*  What  did  he  say  ? '  I  inquired. 

*  Nothing !  Save  to  inquire  when  I  thought 
you  were  likely  to  be  going.  I  told  him  in  about 
a  month,  and  that,  as  I'd  some  business  in  town, 
touching  those  stocks  and  shares  of  mine,  we  were 
going  to  stay  and  help  you.' 

'  By  all  means,  serve  God  and  Mammon  at  the 
same  time,  it's  the  best  game  going ! '  growled  the 
Doctor,  rushing  upstairs,  and  coming  down  in 
about  ten  minutes,  lugging  that  huge  portmanteau 
of  his  after  him,  hailed  a  four-wheeler,  and  drove 
off  without  another  word.' 

'  And  left  no  message  for  me  ? ' 

*  Not  a  syllable.' 

*  That's  strange,'  said  I. 

'  He  is  a  strange  man,  is  the  Doctor,'  replied  the 
*  Meenister.' 

And  he  was  right.  Charles  Reade  is  a  strange 
man — a  very  strange  man  ! 

A  week,  a  fortnight,  three  weeks  elapsed,  and 
we  neither  saw  nor  heard  of  him. 

Meanwhile  our  preparations  were  nearly  com- 
pleted. An  eligible  tenant  had  proposed  for  the 
remainder  of  the  lease ;  if  his  references  were  satis- 
factory the  matter  could  be  settled  at  once.  We 
had  selected  such  things  as  were  desirable  for  my 
room  at  the  manse.  A  broker  had  appraised  the  re- 
mainder of  the  goods  and  made  me  an  offer — a  very 
bad  one,  so  bad  that  I  declined  it  and  determined 
to  store  the  things  rather  than  accept  it.  When 
the  inventory  was  taken,  we  found  a  lot  of  Reade's 
things — half-a-dozen  fiddles,  a  bundle  of  manuscripts, 
hundreds  of  books,  a  huge,  lumbering  writing-desk,  a 
chest  of  drawers,  heaps  of  linen  and  clothing,  some  bnc- 
d-brac,  three  or  four  pictures,  an  armchair,  etc.  What 
to  do  with  all  this  rubbish  I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea." 

380 


MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD   MANSE 

'  Suppose  we  send  them  to  Oxford  or  Ipsden,' 
suggested  Carrie. 

'  Better   ascertain    whether    he    is    there    first,'   I 
rephed. 

'  Right,'  repHed  the  '  Meenister,'  and  he  wired  to 
Oxford,  but  there  was  no  answer.  Then  he  wired 
to  Ipsden,  no  answer  from  there.  Next  he  wired  to 
the  Hotel  de  Lille  et  D 'Albion ;  still  no  answer. 
At  last  it  occuiTed  to  me  as  an  inspiration  to  try 
the  Garriek. 

No  information  could  be  obtained  there,  save 
that  if  a  letter  were  left  it  would  be  forwarded 
immediately,  so  a  note  was  written  explaining  the 
state  of  affairs,  and  left  at  the  Club. 

I  had  begun  to  be  irritated  at  this  long- con- 
tinued absence  and  this  obstinate  silence. 

I  had  nursed  Reade  through  a  dangerous  illness 
and  had  been  very  thoughtful   in  a  hundred  ways 
in    which    a    woman    can    be    helpful    to    a    lonely 
man. 

That  he  should  so  easily  forget  hurt  me  deeply. 

It  was  now  Wednesday ;  next  day  the  lease 
would  be  transferred,  the  day  after,  the  furniture  for 
my  room  would  be  on  the  way  to  Scotland,  the 
rest  stored — and  then  ? 

Carrie  and  the  'Meenister'  went  out  shopping 
in  Regent  Street,  and  I  was  left  alone  to  take 
stock  of  the  situation. 

When  I  came  to  think  it  over,  the  prospect  of 
ending  my  days  at  that  dreary  old  Manse — no 
theatres,  no  music,  no  pleasant  company — did  not 
appear  very  alluring,  and  I  began  to  feel  angered 
with  the  '  Meenister,'  and  his  wife,  and  still  more 
angered  with  Reade. 

I  was  no  longer  young.  It  was  too  late  now 
to  form  new  friends,  new  associations ;  our  pleasant 
Bohemian  ways  were  to  be  superseded  by  this 
small  nan'ow  life,  this  sordid  routine  of  a  Scottish 
Manse. 

I'd  read  or  heard  of  a  book  call  '  Mosses  from 
an  Old  Manse,'  and  I  kept  repeating  the  words  to 

381 


EGERIA 

myself  till  I  found  myself  muttering :  '  I  suppose  I 
shall  grow  Mossy  too  I ' 

Anger  got  the  better  of  me.  I  started  to  my 
feet,  exclaiming  aloud :  '  Ungrateful,  barbarous 
creature,  to  go  away  without  even  a  good-bye ! ' 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  my  mouth 
when  He  rushed  into  the  room — unkempt,  unshorn, 
ghastly  pale,  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head — 
more  like  a  raving  maniac  than  the  sedate  Vice- 
President  of  Maudlen. 

'  Have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses,  Laura, 
or  do  you  want  to  drive  me  out  of  mine,  that  you 
persist  in  this  folly  ? '  he  burst  out. 

'  For  years,  years,  years,  we  have  been  friends, 
comrades,  brother  and  sister,  and  now  to  cast  me 
aside  like  an  old  glove !     It's  abominable  I 

'  The  world  ! '  said  I.     '  The  Minister  1 ' 

'  Blank  the  hypocritical  world !  Blank  your  sanc- 
timonious Minister!  Blank  everything  and  every- 
body !     What  have  they  to  do  with  our  happiness  ? ' 

'Then  he  poured  forth  a  flood  of  violent  in- 
vective and  passionate  entreaty  that  carried  every- 
thing before  it. 

'  Enough,  enough  ! '  I  replied.  '  I  woiit  go.  But 
you  must !  Go  away  before  they  return.  You're 
not  fit  to  talk  with  them  nor  anyone  now.  Not 
even  fit  to  be  seen.  Go  to  the  barber's  first  and 
get  shaved  ! ' 

'  I  will  never  get  shaved  again.' 

(And  he  never  did,  for  from  that  time  forth  he 
cultivated  a  beard  ! ) 

'  Well,  at  anyrate,  away  you  go  and  take  a  hot 
bath  and  a  plate  of  soup  I ' 

'  Bah  !     I  hate  soup  I ' 

'  Then  get  outside  a  porter  steak  and  a  small  bottle, 
and  go  down  to  Ipsden  for  a  week,  and  everything 
shall  be  as  it  used  to  be  by  the  time  you  come  back.' 

'  You  pledge  me  your  word  on  that  ? ' 

'  I've  said  it,  so  good-bye ' 

*No,  not  good-bye — an  revoir — you  understand.' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  understand  enough  French  for  that.' 

382 


THE   LAST   GOOD-BYE 

'  Till  this  day  week  then.' 

'  This  day  week.' 

Quite  a  load  was  taken  off  my  mind,  and  I 
began  to  inipack  directly. 

Both  Carrie  and  the  Meenister  were  astonished 
when  I  told  them  I  had  altered  my  mind.  I  had 
some  difficulty  in  convincing  them,  but  I  did  con- 
vince them  at  last,  and  we've  been  the  best  of  friends 
ever  since ! 

Every  summer  they  come  to  me  for  a  fortnight 
and  sometimes  I  go  back  with  them  for  a  holiday, 
and  last  summer  we  went  to  Germany  together. 

As  for  our  positions  —  His  and  mine  —  we  are 
partners,  nothing  more.  He  has  his  banking  account 
and  I  have  mine. 

He  is  master  of  his  Fellowship  and  his  rooms 
at  Oxford,  and  I  am  Mistress  of  this  house,  but  not 
His  Mistress  ! — oh  dear  no  I  not  exactly  I 

Had  we  met  when  we  were  boy  and  girl  I  might 
—  nay,  more,  I  would  —  have  sacrificed  myself  to 
have  saved  him  from  pauperdom,  but,  fortunately,  we 
didn't  meet  till  I  had  a  husband  to  protect  me ; 
and  though  I  didn't  love  poor  Seymour  after  your 
hot-blooded  Irish  fashion,  liis  honour  was  sacred  as 
my  own. 

AVhen  He  died  and  Curling  died,  and  when  we 
two  eccentric,  but  sensible,  middle-aged  people  were 
left  alone  in  the  world,  we  resolved  to  be  friends  and 
comrades  always,  but  lovers — never  ! 

So  now  you  know  all  I  It's  been  on  my  mind 
to  tell  you  ever  since  that  night  at  the  '  Vick.' 
By-the-by,  I've  not  forgotten  what  you  lent  me 
then.  Her '  it  is.  At  first  I  was  riled  at  your 
dragging  me  there.  I've  been  glad  of  it  ever  since 
because  it  has  enabled  me  to  help  that  poor  soul. 

Charles  has  promised  to  see  after  her  when  — 
when — I — I —  But  enough,  and  more  than  enough 
about  myself.     So  you're  going  on  tour  again  ? " 

'  Yes: 

'How  I  envy  you  your  vitality.  When  do  you 
begin  ? ' 

383 


EGERIA 

'  Monday^  at  Glasgow.' 

*  How  long  are  you  out  ? ' 

*  Six  months' 

'  Then  before  you've  reached  the  end  of  your 
journey  I  shall  have  reached  the  end  of  mine.' 

'The  end?' 

'  Yes,  it's  coming ;  and,  after  all,  what  does  it 
signify, — '  The  readiness  is  all.' 

'  I'm  only  sorry  for  Him.  Poor  old  boy  I  He'll 
be  very  lonely  when  I'm  gone.  I  sha'n't  be  here 
when  you  come  back,  but  mind  you  come  and  see 
Him.  He  likes  you,  and  He  doesn't  like  every  one. 
And  don't  you  forget  me  1 

Oh,  dear  I  oh,  dear  !  I  am  so  tired.  Generally  you 
do  the  chattering — but  I've  had  it  all  my  own  way 
to-night.  Ah,  well  I  it's  my  last  chance,  and  I've 
made  the  most  of  it.  It's  getting  late — so  I  must 
turn  you  out !     Good-bye  ! 

'  No,  no — 7iot  that ! ' 

'  Yes,  that — and  this  !  God  bless  you,  old  friend  I 
Yet  again  1     God  bless  you,  for  the  last  time.  ' 

The  last  time  I  Could  it  be  the  last  time  ?  That 
was  the  question  I  asked  myself  all  the  way  down 
to  the  bleak  and  barren  North. 


384 


CHAPTER    II 

END  OF  THE  JOURNEY 

A  Prolonged  Parenthesis — (A  Letter  from  John  Hollingshead — 
Another  from  Charles  Reade — '^Practical  John"  tells  the 
Story  of  the  Genesis  of  "  Drink  ") — End  of  the  Journey 

Reade's  reply  to  my  enquiries  about  'L'Assommoii- 
awaited  my  aiTival  in  Glasgow.  In  it  he  remindea 
me  how  often  he  had  been  baffled  and  defeated  in 
the  Theatre,  assured  me  that  he  was  once  more  in 
sight  of  port,  and  implored  me,  in  the  name  of  our 
old  friendship,  not  to  cross  him  in  the  ambition  of 
his  life.  I  could  not  withstand  this  appeal,  and  my 
unfortunate  piece  disappeared  into  the  waste-paper 
basket. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  the  preceding 
chapter  Egeria  referred  to  the  part  taken  by  my 
friend  John  Hollingshead  in  instigating  Reade  to 
acquire  and  adapt  Zola's  play. 

^Mentioning  the  cii'cumstance  the  other  day  to 
the  genial  John  he  was  kind  enough  to  promise  to 
furnish  me  with  a  brief  account  of  the  production, 
and  here  it  is  : 

*'  My  Dear  John  Coleman,  —  Here  are  the 
plums  promised  for  your  pudding : 

A.  A  characteristic  letter  from  our  old  friend 
to  yours  truly. 

B.  A  full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  the 
production  of  '  Drink.' 

2  b  385 


EGERIA 

C.  A  bit  of  sugar  for  the  bird  (yourself!). — 
Always  yours, 

John  Hollingshead." 

A. 

August  20th,  1874. 

'  Dear  Hollingshead,  —  I  want  you  to  give 
me  half-an-hour  to  talk  about  plays.  I  have  by 
me  at  this  time  such  a  number  of  masterpieces, 
great  and  small,  as  I  think  no  writer  of  reputation 
ever  yet  kept  by  him  without  finding  a  market. 
I  will  give  you  a  list,  with  a  comment  or  two. 

No.  1.  Our  Seaman.  A  grand  drama  of  incid- 
ent by  sea  and  land,  hitherto  played  in  the  country 
as  '  Foul  Play,'  and  always  with  great  effect.  Copy 
sent  herewith. 

No.  2.  Two  Loves  and  a  Life.  This  is  a  great 
drama  of  incident  and  character,  and  there  is  some 
of  Taylor's  (Tom's)  best  work  in  it,  and  some  of 
mine.  It  deals  with  incidents  of  the  Rebellion 
of  1745,  and  '  Clancarty '  is  not  a  patch  upon  it.  Was 
never  run  out  in  London.  Shelved  by  Webster. 
Has  not  been  performed  for  many  years  here,  and 
I  have  recently  repurchased  the  sole  right  from 
Webster. 

No.  3.  Masks  and  Faces.  Shelved  this  twenty 
years  by  Webster,  and  never  played  in  the  countiy 
except  for  benefits — that  is  to  say,  in  the  vilest  and 
most  slovenly  way.  This  comedy  rehearsed  by  me, 
and  made  sharp  and  effective  in  all  the  parts,  is  a 
sure  success  at  a  comedy  theatre,  the  cast  being 
sufficient.  Recently  repurchased  from  Webster. 
It  is  never  too  late  to  mend.  Remodelled,  and 
the  female  interest  strengthened — a  sure  card  at  a 
big  theatre — the  Princess's  first. 

No.  4.  Dora.  A  poetical  pastoral,  in  which  the 
scenery  is  very  important  because  it  plays  a  part 
in  the  story.  A  drunken  scene-painter  hurt  us  at  the 
Adelphi,  but  over  the  water  (America)  it  proved  a 
prodigious  success.     This  piece  I  myself  have  shelved 

386 


Photo  h,i   II  .   .1    l->.  lh.i'„.!i 


JOHN    ilOLLINGSHEAD 


A   BUSINESS   LETTER 

for  want  of  an  actor  and  an  actress,  but  I  have  now 
got  them — Ellen  Terry  and  John  Ryder. 

iVo.  5.  Rachel  the  Reaper.  A  powerful  drama. 
Two  acts.  One  scene, — which  scene  I  contribute 
complete.  There  are  strong  characters,  and  as  much 
story  and  plot  as  a  fiv  e-act  drama.  Plays  one  hour 
and  twenty  minutes  only. 

No.    6.    The    JVanderhig    Heir.      No   scenery   to 
paint.      I  have  it  all  docked. 

\o.  7.  The  Robust  Invalid.  (An  adaptation 
from  JNloliere.)  INIiss  Farren  as  Toinette,  or  Ellen 
Terry,  if  in  the  theatre. 

Of  short  pieces  1  am  the  cheapest  author  going. 
I  only  ask  a  moderate  sum  nightly. 

With  large  pieces  I  prefer  the  big  game,  like 
to  share  after  a  sum,  but  then  I  will  always  back 
my  big  pieces  with  capital,  if  required.  Will  back 
them  at  the  Gaiety  or  the  Princess's,  if  you  like 
to  venture. 

What  I  must  not  do  at  the  present  time  is 
to  go  into  management. 

I  have  a  mountain  of  other  work  before  me,  and 
to  me  theatrical  management  is  so  absorbing  that  I 
should  lose  many  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  time 
if  I  went  into  it.  Please  realise  this  situation.  It  is 
one  without  a  parallel,  and  well  worthy  yoiu*  con- 
sideration as  a  manager  superior  in  intelligence  to 
the  old  stagers. 

If  you  agree  with  me  that  these  things  are 
worth  talking  about,  please  make  an  appointment 
with  me,  afternoon  or  evening. 

I  will  only  add  at  present  that  Ryder  has 
offered  to  play  Farmer  Allen  for  £5  less  than 
his  usual  terms,  so  highly  does  he  think  of  the  part, 
and  I  believe  he  would  play  in  '  Two  Loves  and  a 
Life.'  Miss  Ellen  Terry  is  also  desirous  to  play  the 
part  of  Dora. 

Charles  Reade.' 

This  letter,  straight  and  to  the  point,  meant 
business  and  led  to  it. 

387 


EGERIA 

Soon  afterwards  I  did  '  The  Courier  of  Lyons ' 
with  Hermann  Vezin  in  the  dual  characters  of 
Lesurgues  and  Duboscq ;  '  Bobby '  Atkins  in  the 
horse  -  dealer  low  -  comedy  scoundrel ;  while  Nelly 
Farren  played  the  boy  Joliquet,  the  part  acted 
by  one  of  the  Terrys  (Kate  or  Nelly)  with  Charles 
Kean. 

Nothing  was  spared  to  make  this  play  effective ; 
even  real  horses  for  the  Lyons  Mail  being  provided. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  friendship 
between  me  and  a  double-handed  writer,  who  sur- 
passed both  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  both  of  whom 
pined  for  success  on  the  stage,  but  never  obtained 
it,  while  Reade  was  equally  successful  as  a  dramatist 
and  as  a  novelist. 

After  'The  Courier'  we  revived  'Masks  and 
Faces,'  and  ultimately  did  '  Shilly  Shally,'  a  comedy 
which  Reade  derived  from  Anthony  Trollope's  novel, 
'  Ralph  the  Heir.' 

This  production  caused  much  bad  blood  between 
the  authors,  and  led  to  a  lawsuit  for  libel  with  the 
Morning  Advei^tiser,  which  resulted  in  Reade's  getting 
a  verdict  for  £200  and  costs. 

B. 

And  now  to  'come'  not  'to  Hecuba'  but  to 
Zola! 

I  saw  '  L'Assommoir '  in  Paris,  at  the  Porte 
St  IMartin  Theatre  in  1877,  and  was  immensely 
struck  with  the  piece  and  the  acting.  Gil  Naza^ 
(who  afterwards,  poor  fellow,  dried  up  in  a  madl- 
house)  was  the  Coupeau,  a  powerful  performance, 
and  the  other  parts,  notably  one  played  by  the 
comedian  Bailly  (since  dead),  were  all  efficiently 
rendered. 

When  I  returned  to  England,  with  the  memory 
of  the  piece  in  my  mind,  I  felt  that  it  ought  to  be 
done  in  London,  as  at  that  time  our  much-licensed 
Metropolis  was  more  the  slave  of  drink  than  Paris. 
(Since  then,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  our  French  friends, 
Anglo-phobists   as   they   are,   have   copied   this  vile 

388 


"L'ASSOMMOra" 

appetite,  amongst  other  bad  habits,  from  the  Enghsh.) 
With  my  impression  that  the  production  of 
*  L'Assommoir '  in  England  would  do  much  good 
socially,  and  provide  the  stage  with  a  strong  drama, 
was  associated  the  belief  that  Charles  Reade  was 
the  proper  man  to  adapt  it.  He  was  the  one 
author  of  eminence  (with  the  exception  of  Bulwer 
Lytton)  who  was  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  com- 
petent dramatist  and  novelist. 

I  met  him  (Reade),  by  accident,  one  morning 
at  the  Garrick.  I  preached  to  him ;  I  harangued 
him.  I  pointed  out,  first  the  merits  of  the  drama, 
and  secondly  the  worship  of  Drink  in  England. 
I  reminded  him  that  more  than  one-third  of  our 
national  income  was  drawn  from  national  drunken- 
ness. I  figured  Britannia  as  a  bottle  -  nosed  old 
Jezebel,  supported  by  a  flaring  gin-shop  on  one 
side  and  an  opium  den  on  the  other.  I  figured 
Paris  with  its  temperate  cafes,  as  it  was  then.  I 
amazed  Reade  first,  and  convinced  him  next.  Im- 
pressed by  my  energetic  pleading  (it  was  hardly 
pleading ;  it  was  a  case  of  '  No  compulsion,  only 
you  must')  he  decided  to  go  and  see  the  piece. 

Then  began  the  usual  Readean  process  when 
preparing  to  'cross  the  Channel.'  Telegi-aphic  com- 
munication was  opened  with  the  harbour  -  master 
at  Dover.  When  the  sea  was  like  castor-oil  Reade 
would  start,  not  before.  The  great  author  was 
right.  The  '  Sea  is  His  and  He  made  it  '—and 
He  may  keep  it  is  the  opinion  of  yours  tridy. 

Ulysses  started  on  his  voyage,  saw  the  piece 
with  the  original  fine  cast,  bought  the  '  English 
rights,'  and  adapted  it. 

C. 

Now  for  the  '  bit  of  sugar  '  for  you. 

In  speaking  of  stage-managers  and  stage-manage- 
ment, Reade  always  maintained  that  "for  getting 
up  anything,  from  a  tragedy  to  a  pantomime,  from 
coaching    actors    and     actresses    to    drilling    supers, 

389 


EGERIA 

you,  and   you    alone   were,    without   exception,  the 

most 1 ' 

(No,  thanksy  dear  John,  spare  my  blushes !    J.C.y 


At  a  later  period  Reade  informed  me  that,  at 
this  period,  the  condition  of  Egeria's  health  was  a 
perpetual  source  of  anxiety,  which  made  the  process 
of  adaptation  much  more  difficult  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated. When  at  length  the  work  was  completed, 
and  rehearsals  commenced,  she  was  no  longer  at 
hand  to  suggest,  advise,  and  assist  as  hitherto,  and 
he  regarded  her  absence  as  an  omen  of  ill-luck. 

At  length,  however,  all  difficulties  were  sur- 
mounted, and  the  result  is  thus  described  by 
'practical  John.' 

'  Drink '  was  produced  on  Whit  Monday,  June 
1879 — the  very  night  on  which  the  Comedie  Francnise 
Company  appeared  at  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  then  under 
my  management. 

I  was  present  during  the  whole  of  the  per- 
formance at  the  Princess's.  1  knew  what  was  being 
done  at  the  Gaiety  (I  had  £20,000  advance  booking 
in  hand  for  the  great  French  Combination  I),  but  I 
did  not  know  what  was  going  to  happen  in  Oxford 
Street.  Reade,  as  usual,  had  backed  his  piece  with 
a  considerable  sum  of  his  own  money.  He  reaped 
his  reward.  The  piece  was  an  enormous  and  per- 
manent success.  I  had  no  pecuniary  interest  in  the 
matter,  and  never  sought  for  any ;  my  only  object 
was  to  serve  my  friend,  who,  I  am  happy  to  say, 
cleared  upwards  of  £20,000  by  this  one  piece  I 


The  very  theatre  in  which  Reade  had  encountered 
the  cruel  insults  which  embittered  his  life  and  en- 
dangered '  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,'  fifteen 
years  before,  was  crowded  nightly  from  pit  to  dome 
by  eager,  excited,  and  enthusiastic  multitudes.  With 
their  plaudits  ringing  in  his  ears,  his  first  thought  (so 

390 


END   OF  THE  JOURNEY 

he  assured  me)  was :  '  And  She  is  not  here  to  see 
it,  to  hear  it,  to  share  it  with  me ! ' 

When  he  reached  home  She  forgot  for  a  moment, 
a  little  moment,  her  agonies  of  pain  in  the  recital  of 
his  triumph. 

If  She  could  only  have  been  there ! 

In  his  diary,  at  that  date,  he  states : 

*  Two  great  successes  at  the  Princess's  Theatre, 
'  Never  too  Late  to  JNIend '  and  '  Drink,'  have  im- 
proved my  fortune,  but  I  really  think  have  added 
to  my  grief  —  especially  since  my  darling  cannot 
enjoy  my  triumph  for  pain  and  suffering.' 

While  our  generous,  large-hearted  Egeria  was 
suffering  indescribable  agonies,  struggling  'twixt  life 
and  death,  the  Theatre  was  still  crowded  and 
money  was  turned  from  the  doors. 

It  was  amidst  this  triumph,  so  long  deferred, 
that  the  blow  fell  which  left  Him  a  desolate,  broken 
man. 

When  the  news  reached  me  I  was  hundreds 
of  miles  away,  but  there  is  a  communication  lying 
before  me  now,  in  which,  after  recording  the  con- 
tinued success  of  the  new  play,  he  refers  to  the 
struggles  of  his  youth,  the  vicissitudes  of  his  man- 
hood, his  repeated  failures,  his  frequent  disappoint- 
ments in  the  Theatre.  '  And  now,'  he  continues, 
'  now  that  I  am  rich  and  prosperous,  now  .  .  .' 


'  The  emptiest  things  reverberate  most  sound,' 
and  my  heart  is  too  full  for  words. 

There  is,  however,  an  epitaph  on  a  tomb  in 
Willesden  churchyard,  which  will  tell  the  remainder 
of  the  story  better  than  I  could  tell  it  were  I  even 
to  attempt  it. 

I  quote  the  inscription  without  comment. 


391 


EGERIA'S  EPITAPH 


"  Here  lies  the  great  heart  of  Laura 
Seymour,  a  brilHant  artist,  a  humble  Chris- 
tian, a  charitable  woman,  a  loving  daughter, 
sister,  and  friend,  who  lived  for  others  from 
her  childhood.  Tenderly  pitiful  to  all  God's 
creatures,  even  to  some  that  are  frequently 
destroyed  or  neglected,  she  wiped  away  the 
tears  from  many  faces,  helping  the  poor 
with  her  savings,  and  the  sorrowful  with  her 
earnest  pity.  When  the  eye  saw  her  it 
blessed  her,  for  her  face  was  sunshine,  her 
voice  was  melody,  and  her  heart  was  sym- 
pathy. Truth  could  say  more,  and  Sorrow 
pines  to  enlarge  upon  her  virtues ;  but  this 
would  ill  accord  with  her  humility,  who  justly 
disclaimed  them  all,  and  relied  only  on  the 
merits  of  her  Redeemer.  After  months  of 
acute  suffering,  bowing  with  gentle  resigna- 
tion, and  with  sorrow  for  those  who  were  to 
lose  her,  not  for  herself,  she  was  released 
from  her  burden,  and  fell  asleep  in  Jesus, 
September  27th,  1879.  'Blessed  are  the 
merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy '  (Matt. 
V.  7).  This  grave  was  made  for  her  and 
for  himself  by  Charles  Reade,  whose  wise 
counsellor,  loyal  ally,  and  bosom  friend  she 
was  for  twenty-four  years,  and  who  mourns 
her  all  his  days." 


End  of  Book  the  Fourth 


392 


Book  the  Fifth 
THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 


■  Eros,  unarm  :  the  long  day's  task  is  done, 
And  we  must  sleep." 


Book  the  Fifth 
THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.  'twixt  earth  and  heaven         .  .       395 

II.  COMING  home         .  .  .       409 


CHAPTER    1 

'TWIXT   EARTH   AND    HEAVEN 

After  many  Days — Life  at  Shepherd's  Bush  in  1883 — Forty  Winks 
after  Dinner — A  general  Illumination — Last  Night  at  Blom- 
field  Terrace — The  Book  of  Job — A  theological  Disquisition, 
and  a  sagacious  Conclusion — Two  Quotations — A  last  Look 
at  Albert  Gate — The  new  old  Play  of  "Griffith  Gaunt"  — 
Awaiting  the  Hour — And  the  Woman — Our  last  Interview 
— Reade's  Departure  for  the  Riviera 

Engaged  on  tour,  and  rushing  from  pillar  to  post, 
fully  twelve  months— twelve  long,  weary  months — 
elapsed  before  I  visited  Albert  Gate  again. 

I  knew  from  his  letters  that  Leo  was  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  but  I  was  quite  unprepared 
to  find  him  so  utterly  broken  down. 

When  we  parted  he  was  robust  and  hilarious ; 
when  we  met  he  was  reduced  to  a  skeleton,  and 
was  taciturn  as  the  gi*ave.  His  hair  had  grown 
quite  white,  his  features  haggard  and  wan,  his  eyes 
dim  and  sunken. 

Save  for  the  dogs  couched  at  his  feet  he  was 
quite  alone. 

There  were  no  less  than  three  large  oil  paintings 
of  Egeria  spread  out  before  him ;  one  handsomely 
framed,  rested  upon  an  artist's  easel,  the  other  two 
rested  on  chairs  placed  at  either  side. 

He  was  seated  before  them,  his  hands  clasped 
together  over  a  walking-stick,  his  head  resting  on 
his  hands,  his  eyes  eagerly  peering  from  picture 
to  picture  as  if  in  search  of  something  which  con- 
stantly eluded  him. 

When  I  was  shown  in  he  regarded  me  with  an 
eager  yet  suspicious  look  as  if  he  failed  to  recognise 

395 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

me,  but  the  sound  of  my  voice  evidently  evoked  some 

memory  of  the  past,  and  then Yes,  then — but  no  ! 

There  are  some  things  too  sacred  for  aught  save 
silence ! 

Unable  longer  to  endure  the  sight  of  the  home 
now  grown  so  desolate,  he  migrated  to  Shepherd's 
Bush,  where  his  brother  Compton  and  his  family,  did 
all  that  was  humanly  possible  to  alleviate  his  sorrow. 

Time,  the  great  consoler,  brought,  if  not  forget- 
fulness,  at  least  resignation,  as  is  evidenced  by  the 
following  extracts  from  his  diary : — 

'  I  have  lost  the  one  creature  who  thought 
more  of  the  interest,  health,  and  happiness  of  a 
poor  old  man  of  sixty-five  than  of  her  own ! 

Oh,  to  think  that  for  five-and-twenty  years  I 
was  blessed  with  Laura  Seymour,  and  that  now 
for  the  rest  of  my  pilgrimage  she  is  quite,  quite 
gone.  Not  one  look  from  her  sweet  eyes  — -  not 
one  smile.     Oh,  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

My  poor  lamb  has  left  me  all  her  savings  — 
my  tears  stream  afresh  when  I  think  of  it.  Every 
shilling  of  that  sacred  money  is  devoted  to  God 
and  the  poor. 

His  will  be  done.  I  am  very  wretched ;  but, 
once  more.  His  will  be  done ! ' 

Even  in  His  most  despondent  moods  we  found 
many  topics  of  common  interest,  and  he  loved  to 
talk  of  Her  and  of  old  times. 

At  length  he  began  gradually  to  resume  health  and 
strength.  '  His  ashes  lived  again  in  their  wonted 
fires ' ;  and  if  he  once  began  to  talk  of  the  Theatre 
he  forgot  his  troubles.  Noting  this,  I  induced  him 
to  accompany  me  to  the  Play  two  or  three  times, 
and  we  went  to  Drury  Lane  to  see  the  Meiningen 
people,  who  interested  him  so  much  that  for  days 
he  could  talk  of  nothing  else. 

396 


SHERIDxVN   KNOWLES 

A  month  or  two  later,  with  his  usual  incon- 
sistency, he  went  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and 
informed  me  with  great  empressement  that  he  did 
not  intend  to  write  for  the  Theatre  again,  and 
that  henceforth  he  would  devote  himself  entirely 
to  Biblical  studies ! 

At  this  very  time,  he  related  with  great  gusto 
a  story  about  the  late  Sheridan  Knowles.  In  his 
declining  years,  especially  when  he  was  out-of-sorts, 
the  veteran  poet  (who  was  a  fine,  noble-hearted,  but 
hot-headed  and  eccentric  Irishman)  became  exceed- 
ingly pious.  As  soon  as  he  got  better  he  changed 
his  views,  illustrating  in  fine  form  the  adage : 

*  The  devil  was  ill,  and  the  devil  a  monk  would  be ; 
The  devil  got  well^  and  the  devil  a  monk  was  he  ! ' 

During  his  fits  of  despondency  he  regarded,  or 
affected  to  regard,  the  Play-house  as  the  Bottom- 
less Pit  of  Abomination ;  but,  though  he  scorned 
the  sin,  he  did  not  scorn  the  wages  of  it.  I  dont 
mean  '  Death,'  but  the  fees  arising  from  the  repre- 
sentation of  his  plays.  He  was  '  Death '  on  them, 
certainly !  And,  ill  or  well,  pious  or  otherwise,  woe 
betide  the  luckless  manager  who  ventm-ed  to  do 
one  of  Knowles'  plays  without  paying  him  for  it. 

At  her  death,  his  widow  (formerly  the  beautiful 
Miss  Elphinstone,  the  actress)  bequeathed  £1000 
each  to  the  Pastors'  College  (in  connection  with  the 
jNIetropolitan  Tabernacle),  the  Midnight  JMeeting 
Movement  (Red  Lion  Square),  and  the  Stockwell 
Orphanage  for  Boys  (Clapham  Road) ;  £100  to  the 
minister,  deacons,  and  elders  of  Ardberg  Baptist 
Chapel  (Rothesay,  Isle  of  Bute).  Evidently  the 
Tabernacle  does  not  disdain  to  subsidise  the  Temple 
of  Satan,  nor  did  the  late  lamented  withdraw  the 
plays  from  the  stage,  inasmuch  as  she  bequeathed 
all  the  manuscripts  and  writings,  and  the  interest 
arising  from  the  acting  of  the  dramas  of  James 
Sheridan  Knowles,  to  5lary  Knowles  Rice. 

One  morning,  many  years  ago,  the  two  autliors 

397 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

met  at  the  door  of  Benjamin  Webster's  house  in 
Brompton.  At  that  period  Reade  was  more  famous 
for  his  facts  than  for  anything  else,  and  it  was  well 
known  how  hard  he  worked  in  getting  them  up. 
Knowles  was  coming  out  savagely  pious  because 
Webster  had  declined  to  accept  a  play  of  his. 
Reade  was  going  in  with  a  manuscript  imder  his 
arm,  hoping  to  succeed  in  inducing  rare  old  Ben 
to  hear  it.  In  his  usual  effusive  feshion  Knowles 
opened  fire  with :  '  How  are  you,  dear  boy  ?  God 
bless  my  sowl,  how  are  you,  and  how  have  you  been 
this  age  past  ?  You're  the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see  ! 
It's  no  use  trying  to  see  him  '  (indicating  Webster). 
"  The  owld  thief  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me  just 
now  that  thragedy's  a  dhrug  in  the  market,  and  that 
he's  got  enough  comedies  to  keep  the  Haymarket 
goin'  for  the  next  century.  How  lucky  thin  is  this 
matin' !  I've  got  a  splendid  pot-boiler — a  commission 
to  write  a  polemical  pamphlet  to  pitch  into  the  Papists. 
I'm  all  right  except  for  the  facts.  Unfortunately, 
that's  my  wake  point,  but  it's  your  sthrong  one ; 
so  if  you'll  do  the  facts  I'll  do  the  slatin',  and  we'll 
divide  the  plunder  between  us.' 

Whether  that  pamphlet  ever  saw  the  light  or  not 
I  am  unable  to  say  ;  I  only  know  that  Reade  left  the 
poet  to  do  the  "  facts  "  as  well  as  the  "  slatin'." 

W^hen  my  vacation  came  to  an  end,  and  I  had 
to  leave  town  to  fulfil  my  engagements,  Reade  again 
assured  me  that  he  had  done  with  the  Theatre  for 
ever,  and  that  he  would  devote  the  remainder  of 
his  life  to  the  Bible,  and  advised  me  to  follow  his 
example.  Nay,  more,  he  urged  me  to  quit  the 
Stage  and  take  to  the  Church.  '  You'd  show  'em 
how  the  Bible  should  be  read,'  said  he,  '  and  if  I 
could  only  teach  you  to  believe,  with  your  gift  of 
the  gab,  and  your  elocution,  you'd  make  a  splendid 
popular  preacher ! ' 

He  was  so  much  in  earnest  on  this  occasion  that 
I  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  some  few  weeks 
later  I  received  the  following  communication : — 

398 


TWO   LETTERS 

'Blomfield  Villas, 
Oct.  16,  1882. 

'  Dear  John, — I  was  in  hopes  you  would  have 
reported  progress  from  the  Channel  Isle  (Jersey) 
ere  this.  .  .  .  Will  you  now  kindly  draw  on  your 
memory  and  send  me  a  list  of  good  old  short  pieces 
— say  forty-five  minutes — merry,  but  interesting, 
and  not  all  practical  jokes  and  nonsense  ?  I  want 
one  for  the  Adelphi  (which  I  lease  from  November 
18th,  for  three  months  to  bring  out  our  new  drama, 
'Love  and  Money').  I  also  want  a  low  comedian, 
young  man,  and  two  or  three  ladies. — Yours  always, 

'  Reade.' 

Before  I  had  time  to  answer  this  letter  there 
came  another  to  the  following  effect : — 

*  Adelphi  Theatre, 
Oct.  18,  1882. 

My  dear  Joannes, — Put  my  last  in  the  fire 
and  concentrate  your  attention  on  this. 

I'm  in  a  hole :  in  fact  I've  been  in  nothing 
but  holes  ever  since  I  commenced  this  infernal 
collaboration. 

The  '  story  of  my  woes '  must  keep  till  we 
meet.  Suffice  it  for  the  present — my  collaborator 
and  I  are  at  loggerheads — and  my  leading  man 
has  thrown  up  his  part — the  very  best  I  have  ever 
written. 

A^^'ill  you  come  and  play  it  ('Tis  made  for  you ! ), 
and  show  the  beggars  how  it  should  be  done  ? 

Terms  no  object — that  is,  if  you  will  stage- 
manage  as  well  as  act — come !  and  I'll  give  you 
carte  blanche. 

Take  the  next  boat.  Wire  when  I  may  expect 
you,  and  I  will  be  here  to  meet  you. — Yours  ever, 

C.  R. 

P.S. — ^lind  !  we  open  in  a  month,  so  we  haven't 
a  moment  to  lose  I 

399 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

If  we  '  strike  ile '  (and  we  shall  if  you  will 
only  come  to  the  rescue  and  put  your  shoulder  to 
the  wheel ! )  we'll  do  '  Griffith  Gaunt '  and  '  Valjean ' 
after. 

I've  got  a  Kate  for  you.  Such  a  woman  I 
A  gorgeous  creature  ! ' 

Unfortunately  at  this  moment  I  was  bound  by 
contracts  with  managers  in  Portsmouth,  Leeds, 
Leicester,  Liverpool,  Manchester,  Birmingham,  Dub- 
lin, Edinburgh,  and  Glasgow,  so  that,  much  as  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  accepted  this  proposal, 
I  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  decline  it. 

The  story  of  this,  his  last  theatrical  speculation, 
is  as  strange  as  any  of  his  preceding  experiences. 

JNIr  Henry  Pettitt  and  Mr  Paul  Merritt — two 
men,  with  remarkable  aptitude,  and  equally  remark- 
able antecedents  —  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
serve  their  apprenticeship  with  Mr  George  Con-^ 
quest,  the  veteran  play-wright,  of  the  Grecian 
Saloon,  who  was  a  past-master  in  constructing  a 
plot  or  building  up  a  situation.  In  addition  to 
these  qualifications  he  knew  more  of  the  contempor- 
aneous French  drama  than  any  man  in  England. 

His  system  was  to  pro^^ide  the  scenario  of  a 
play,  and  instruct  his  colleagues  to  clothe  it  in 
flesh  and  blood — i.e.  in  fairly  brisk  dialogue. 

Pettitt  (so  he  told  me)  had  been  an  assistant 
schoolmaster,  a  super  at  the  Opera,  and  (in  a  small 
way)  an  actor. 

IMeiTitt  introduced  himself  to  me  at  HuU,  and 
volunteered  to  write  me  a  play,  alleging  that  he 
had  seen  me  in  all  my  repertory,  and  could  fit  me 
with  something  exactly  suited  to  my  resources. 
Upon  inquiring  where  he  had  seen  me,  he  replied 
at  Leeds ;  that,  in  point  of  fact,  he  was  so  ardent 
an  admirer  of  mine,  that  he  had  actually  taken  a 
private  box  every  night  I  acted  during  the  entire 
season  ! 

Carried  away  by  his  ardour,  I  invited  him  to 
dinner.  By  the  time  we  got  through  the  first 
bottle    he    confided    to   me   that  his   '  private   box ' 

400 


WISE   MEN    OF   THE   EAST 

was  a  front  seat  in  the  '  Top  Hoel,'  as  the  six- 
penny gallery  of  the  Leeds  Theatre  was  called  in  the 
vernacular. 

He  then  proceeded  to  inform  me  that  his  mother, 
a  native  of  Yorkshire,  had  been  some  years  in 
Russia,  where  she  married  a  morganatic  offshoot  of 
the  Polish  Sobieskis's.  In  consequence  of  incom- 
patibility of  temper,  husband  and  wife  separated 
soon  after  Paul's  birth,  and  the  mother  returned 
to  her  birthplace  with  her  son. 

When  he  grew  up,  the  boy  hungered  for  a 
sight  of  his  father,  got  to  know  where  he  was  to 
be  found,  ran  away  to  Hull,  took  ship  before  the 
mast,  was  kicked  and  cuffed  about  from  stem  to 
stern  till  he  reached  Odessa,  from  whence  he  bolted, 
tramped  half  over  Russia,  found  his  father,  who  not 
only  declined  to  acknowledge  him,  but  consigned 
him  to  a  much  warmer  climate  than  Siberia. 

The  poor  lad  had  consequently  to  tramp  through 
the  snow  to  Archangel,  and  make  his  way  home 
the  best  way  he  could. 

He  was  wont  to  cite,  in  proof  of  his  Russian 
origin,  that  when  he  landed  at  Hull,  after  a  long 
voyage  in  a  sailing-ship,  the  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  rush  off  to  the  market-place,  buy  a  huge  cucumber, 
run  up  an  entry,  and  chaw  it  up  to  the  last  morsel. 

When  Augustis  Harris  took  Drury  Lane  he 
imported  Pettitt  and  ]Merritt  from  '  The  Grecian,' 
and  between  them  they  concocted  '  The  World,'  the 
second  act  of  which,  by  the  way,  was  an  audacious 
crib  from  the  second  act  of  Reade's  "  Foul  Play.' 

With  the  aid  of  a  Railway  collision,  they  vamped 
up  the  next  drama  for  old  Drury.  Then  their  noses 
were  put  out  of  joint  by  '  The  Sailor  and  his  Lass,' 
by  Robert  Buchanan,  which  ran  for  tlie  whole  of 
Harris's  third  season. 

Tem]iorarily  banished  the  Lane,  Pettitt  induced 
Mr  Clarence  Holt  to  accept  a  rough  and  tumble 
"clfama,  whicli,  after  a  trial  trip  in  Birmingham,  was 
produced  at  the  Adelphi.  with  Mr  Warner  in  the 
leading  part.  This  gentleman  (who  was  the  original 
2c  401 


THE    WHITE   PILGRIM 

and  admirable  Coupeau  in  '  Drink),'  suggested  to 
Pettitt  a  collaboration  with  Reade.  The  former 
jumped  at  the  idea,  and  Warner  broached  the  sub- 
ject to  the  latter,  who  at  first  demurred.  But  when 
Pettitt,  who  was  as  modest  as  he  was  ingratiating, 
submitted  a  capital  Scenario,  Reade  condescended  to 
collaborate  with  the  young  man  from  the  East  End. 

The  Gattis  were  persuaded  to  entertain  the  idea 
for  the  Adelphi — that  is,  if  they  approved  of  the 
play.  Pettitt  then  persuaded  French,  the  publisher, 
to  cable  to  America  that  a  new  drama,  by  the 
author  of  '  Never  too  Late '  and  '  Drink,'  was  to 
be  produced  at  the  Adelphi. 

An  enterprising  New  York  manager  jumped  at 
the  bait,  and  actually  planked  down  £2000  for  the 
rights  in  the  United  States  ! 

Then  came  difficulties.  The  Gattis  refused  to 
accept  the  play,  whereupon  the  American  impre- 
sario intimated  that  if  it  was  not  produced  at  the 
Adelphi  he  should  expect  his  £2000  back  ! 

In  this  emergency  the  authors  resolved  to  pro- 
duce the  play  themselves.  To  this  end  they  rented 
the  theatre  from  the  Gattis  for  three  months. 

Then  came  another  obstacle :  Warner  threw  up 
his  part,  whereupon,  as  already  stated,  Reade  ap- 
pealed to  me.  As  I  was  unable  to  come,  Pettitt 
recommended  a  friend  of  his. 

When  this  difficulty  was  obviated,  another  cropped 
up.  Warner  was  engaged  by  the  Gattis  for  the 
season,  and  they  stipulated  that  Reade  and  Pettitt 
must  pay  his  salary,  whether  he  acted  or  not. 

They  had  gone  too  far  to  recede  now,  so  they 
consented  to  accept  this  additional  responsibility, 
provided  Warner  would  go  to  Liverpool  to  act 
"Drink"  for  a  month  so  as  to  ease  the  London 
treasury. 

One  would  have  thought  all  was  now  clear,  but 
lo  and  behold !  when  the  partners  began  to  discuss 
the  getting  up  of  the  play,  they  agreed  to  differ 
as  to  the  amount  to  be  expended,  and  the  difference 
was  so  acute  that  Reade  paid  Pettitt  £500  to  with- 

402 


"LOVE   AND   MONEY"   AND   "DORA" 

draw  altogether  from  the  business,  so  that  astute 
young  gentleman  reth-ed  with  a  clear  £1500  in  his 
pocket,  while  Reade  was  left  to  bear  the  brunt  of 
the  joint  speculation  in  London  and  Liverpool. 

Both  turned  out  disastrous  failures  ! 

His  appeal  to  the  managers  five  years  before,  to 
give  '  Dora '  another  trial  having  met  with  no  re- 
sponse, he  determined  to  give  it  a  chance  himself, 
hence  he  produced  it  to  bolster  up  '  Love  and 
Money.' 

Nothing  was  left  to  accident  on  this  occasion 
with  regard  to  the  scenery,  which  was  of  the  most 
elaborate,  realistic,  and  perfect  character.  Miss  Sophie 
Eyre  acted  Dora,  and  Mr  Charles  Warner  acted  the 
patriarchal  farmer,  and,  I  believe,  both  distinguished 
themselves  highly.  The  play  was  admirably  cast 
in  other  respects,  but  it  was  unfortunately  placed. 
It  commenced  the  evening's  performance  at  seven 
o'clock,  so  that,  in  fact,  it  was  half  over,  before 
there  was  anyone  in  the  house  to  see  it,  and  Reade 
ruefully  informed  me  that  so  far  from  its  production 
helping  the  receipts,  they  continued  to  dwindle  down 
and  down,  until  both  pieces  were  finally  withdrawn. 
Thus  his  latest  theatrical  speculation,  and  the  very 
last  performance  of  one  of  his  most  cherished  works, 
was  destined  to  end  in  a  cruel  disappointment ! 

This  final  disaster  soured  his  temper  and  embittered 
him  against  the  Theatre. 

On  returning  to  town  at  the  end  of  my  tour 
I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  at  home,  but  rarely  or  ever 
at  the  Play-house. 

Indeed,  the  last  time  I  met  him  in  a  Theatre 
was  at  I  uy  I..ane,  the  first  night  of  "  Freedom," 
in  August  1883.  He  had  just  returned  from  the 
Continent,  was  feeble  and  tired,  and  left  before  the 
play  was  over.  I  brought  him  out  and  put  him 
into  a  cab.  He  wished  me  to  accompany  him 
home,  but,  unfortunately,  I  had  a  lady  with  me 
whom  I  had  to  pilot  to  the  wilds  of  Clapham 
Junction  —  a  circumstance  I  have  regretted  ever 
since,   for   he   seemed   to   feel    rather    hurt    by   my 

403 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

refusal.     This   was   his   last — his   very   last — appear- 
ance in  a  Theatre. 

It  was  in  the  natural  fitness  of  things  it  should 
take  place  at  old  Drury.  It  was  in  that  Theatre 
that  he  saw  Macready  in  '  Macbeth '  when  he  first 
came  to  London  ;  it  was  in  that  Theatre  that  '  Gold ' 
was  produced ;  it  was  there  that  I  had  last  met 
him  when  the  JNIeiningen  troop  were  acting.  It  was 
there  he  saw  his  first  play  in  London  ;  it  was  there 
he  saw  his  last ! 

Although  his  health  fluctuated,  he  wrote  and 
worked  pretty  much  as  usual.  Hence,  I  thought  he 
was  more  hypochondriacal  than  really  or  seriously 
ill.  Indeed,  at  this  very  time^  he  informed  me  he 
had  completed  a  novel,  which  he  revised  and  left 
ready  for  publication. 

When  the  weather  was  favourable,  he  would 
occasionally  take  an  hour  or  two's  drive,  or  pick 
himself  up  for  a  game  of  lawn  tennis,  but  he  soon 
became  fatigued,  and,  after  dinner,  in  the  very  midst 
of  conversation,  he  would  drop  off  into  a  stupor  of 
sleep  for  an  hour  or  two. 

Years  ago,  when  we  were  travelling  together, 
when  I  had  to  act  at  night,  it  was  my  invariable 
custom,  after  an  early  dinner,  to  adjourn  to  the 
nearest  sofa  for  my  siesta,  a  pleasant  but  pernicious 
habit  acquired  from  long  companionship  with  Charles 
Mathews,  who  had  always  found  it  indispensable  to 
take  forty  winks  before  going  to  the  Theatre.  At 
these  times  when  Reade  used  to  chaff  me  about  my 
indolence,  I  replied :  '  Ah,  it's  all  very  well !  but 
you  haven't  had  a  dozen  letters  to  write  after  a  long 
rehearsal,  and  you  haven't  to  air  yourself  before  the 
public  for  four  or  five  hours  to-night ;  but  /  have.' 

Now  the  venue  was  changed ;  it  was  his  turn  to 
sleep,  mine  to  watch  and  wait.  When  he  awoke 
he  would  soon  pull  himself  together  and  say :  '  Ah, 
John,  it's  your  turn  to  chaff  now  ! ' 

His  eyesight,  which  had  always  been  weak,  got 
worse  and  worse.     Even  when  a  dozen  candles  were 

404 


LAST  NIGHT   AT   SHEPHERD'S   BUSH 

alight  he  would  exclaim  querulously :  '  Dear  me ! 
how  dark  it  grows  I ' 

'  Alas  !     The  darkness  was  in  his  own  eyes  ! ' 

The  last  night  I  was  at  Blomfield  Terrace,  pre- 
vious to  his  leaving  England,  he  read  me  a  remark- 
able paper  (since  published  in  the  Leisure  Hour) 
on  the  Book  of  Jonah.  The  subject  was  handled 
in  his  most  masterly  manner,  but  in  the  full  flow 
of  his  impetuous  eloquence  we  stumbled  upon  one 
of  his  characteristic  blotches.     It  was  to  this  effect : 

'  Having  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  we  must  now 
go  the  whole  hog  or  none.' 

I  made  a  moue. 

He  stopped  and  said :  '  You  don't  like  the  hog, 
I  see.' 

♦I  don't,'  I  rephed. 

'  Well,  it's  a  strong  figure  of  speech,  and  it's 
understanded  of  the  people ;  but  you  are  right,  John, 
— yes,  you  are  right ;  it's  scarcely  scriptural :  besides, 
the  Israelites  never  ate  pork,  so  out  it  goes ! ' 

On  that  occasion  we  discussed,  as  we  had  done 
many  a  time  and  oft  before,  the  everlasting  problems 
of  life,  death,  time,  and  eternity.  Years  ago  he  was 
pronouncedly  agnostic  ;  now  he  hoped  with  a  child's 
humility. 

When  I  was  leaving,  after  some  hours'  earnest 
conversation,  he  said  :  '  Well,  my  boy,  when  all  is 
said  and  done,  when  Tyndal  and  Huxley  have  demon- 
strated to  their  o^mi  satisfaction  that  protoplasm 
is  the  beginning,  when  Darwin  has  shown  that  the 
great  gorilla  is  the  middle,  and  INlill  has  proved  that 
annihilation  is  the  end,  there  yet  remains  this  fact 
which  none  of  'em  can  get  over — there  can  be  roth- 
hig  more  ivoiiderful  in  our  going  hence  than  in  our 
coming  here!  Therefore  perpend,  my  son,  here  are 
two  quotations,  both  by  gi*eat  authors,  Charles 
Reade  and  Alexander  Pope. 

The  first  is  this  (two  lines  from  your  pet  part, 
John) :  * 

*  Father  Radcliffe,  '  Two  Loves  and  a  Life.' 
405 


THE   WHITE   PILGTIIM 

*  There  are  on  earth  but  two  things  which 
never  die :  Love,  which  decays  not,  and  Faith, 
which  binds  the  soul  to  heaven.' 

The  last  is : 

'  Hope  humbly  then,  on  trembling  pinions  soar  ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher.  Death,  and  God  adore  ! ' 

'  Now,  '  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest '  those 
two  choice  morsels :  meanwhile,  remember  Naboth's 
Vineyard  at  four  to-morrow.' 

When  I  arrived  at  Albert  Gate  next  day,  the 
blinds  were  down,  and  there  were  bills  in  the  window, 
*  This  House  to  let.     Apply  within.' 

A  wizened  old  woman  opened  the  door  and 
ushered  me  into  the  study — the  one  so  graphically 
described  in  'A  Terrible  Temptation.'  He  had 
not  yet  come,  but  was  expected  momentarily. 

I  had  not  been  there  for  three  years.  How 
dreary  and  dismantled  it  looked !  The  withered 
leaves,  which  had  fallen  from  the  trees  in  the  garden, 
had  been  blown  under  the  door-sill  into  the  room. 

I  was  awakened  out  of  a  brown  study  by  the 
old  caretaker. 

'  She  didn't  know,  not  she !  whether  it  was  let 
or  not.  She  'oped  it  was — she  'ad  'ad  enough  of 
it,  any  'ow.  Nobody  hever  came  'cept  'im,  and 
the  less  ee  came  the  better.  When  ee  did  come, 
ee  allays  had  the  moUigrubs.  Ee  never  did  nuffin' 
but  go  stampin'  up  and  down,  a-talkin'  to  hisself. 

She  had  nobody  now  'cept  Liza,  and  she  was  in 
service  hout  Fulham  way. 

The  place  was  too  big  for  a  pore  lone  ooman, 
and  the  sooner  she  was  hout  of  it  the  better  she'd 
like  it' — and  thus  grumbling  she  left  me  to  my- 
self and  my  sad  thoughts. 

It  was  past  the  time — only  a  few  minutes,  'tis 
true,  but  what  long  minutes  they  seemed. 

The  gloom  of  the  grey  wintry  afternoon  was 
gradually  settling  down  from  the  gloaming  into 
the  mirk.  I  crept  up  to  the  fire.  How  often 
had  I   sat  there  beside  Her !     It  was  there  I  told 

406 


LAST    NIGHT    AT    NABOTH'S   VINEYARD 

her  the  story  of  my  boyish  struggles  and  priva- 
tions. 'Twas  there  She  had  told  me  of  her  own, 
and  now ! 

Thank  goodness !  a  knock  at  the  door,  voices, 
and  He — at  last ! 

He  had  not  looked  so  bright  and  cheerful  for 
ever  so  long.  Age  became  him  that  day — his  eyes 
were  sparkling,  his  cheeks  a  little  flushed — his  white 
beard  and  silky-white  hair  gave  him  a  dignified  and 
patriarchal  appearance.  His  dress,  too,  was  singu- 
larly striking.  He  wore  a  large  sealskin  coat, 
sealskin  gloves,  and  his  usual  sombrero.  Round 
his  neck  was  a  large  soft  muffler  of  white  silk. 

'  He  felt  wonderfully  better,'  he  said.  '  He  was 
going  out  to  the  Riviera  to  dodge  the  cruel  winter, 
and  when  he  came  back  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  produce  'Griffith  Gaunt.'  He  had  got  a 
splendid  Kate,  and  had  brought  the  lady  with  him 
to  introduce  her  to  me. 

He  had  fixed  upon  the  theatre  too.  The  Globe, 
on  which  he  had  obtained  an  option. 

Yes ;  he  thought  my  alterations  splendid,  but 
he  couldn't  accept  them  in  their  entirety,  so  he 
would  like  to  have  the  IMS.     Would  I  send  it  ? 

He  would  also  hke  to  have  the  last  word,  in  all 
but  the  stage  management,  which  he  was  content 
to  leave  to  me.' 

Presently  the  lady  came  in. 

She  reminded  me  'we  had  met  once  before  in 
the  coffee-room  of  an  hotel  at  Derby,'  but  '  we 
had  not  been  introduced,  you  know,  and  had  merely 
glared  at  each  other.' 

'  Yes,  I  remembered.  I  had  seen  her  act  too,  at 
Drury  Lane.'  I  said  something  civil,  and  mentally 
took  stock  of  'my  lady.' 

She  was  a  capital  actress,  and  a  very  fine  woman, 
but  Kate  Gaunt  ? — not  a  bit  like  her  !  oh  dear,  no  I 
Ryder  ? — yes  !  a  capital  Ryder  !  I  had  an  ideal  cast 
in  my  mind :  Mrs  Kendal  for  Kate,  Miss  Ellen 
Terry  for  Mercy  Vint,  and  our  fair  friend  for 
Ryder.      Our  fair   friend,   however,  didn't  seem   to 

407 


THE  WHITE  PILGRIM 

see  it — remembered  she  had  an  important  engage- 
ment, and  left  us  to  continue  our  conversation. 

She  never  played  Kate  Gaunt  or  Ryder  either. 
Strange,  however,  to  say,  the  next  time  we  met 
she  was  in  management  at  a  West  End  theatre, 
and  opened  with  a  play  of  mine  in  which  she 
acted  the  heroine. 

The  next  time  after  that  ? 

Let  me  see !  'Twas  at  a  Bal  Masque  at  Covent 
Garden,  the  very  last  time  I  ever  met  Augustus 
Harris.  He  had  returned  from  Vienna  that  very 
night.  We  supped  together  in  his  room,  then 
strolled  down  to  the  promenade  together.  As  he 
stopped  to  speak  to  someone,  a  Masked  Woman 
in  a  Carmelite  came  and  took  my  arm. 

We  had  been  in  conversation  half-an-hour  be- 
fore I  recognised  the  heroine  of  my  last  play. 

A  fortnight  later  She  died  at  Naples  ! 

When  it  came  to  '  Good-bye,'  the  dear  old  boy, 
seemed  elate  and  confident ;  I  was  sad  and  dis- 
heartened— not  about  the  future.  It  was  the  past 
which  haunted  me.  He  and  I  might  meet  again 
— but  She  who  had  been  so  dear  to  us  both — She  ? 

When  he  got  into  the  cab  for  Shepherd's  Bush 
I  wished  him  renewed  health  and  strength  and 
a  safe  return.  He  laughed  and  said :  '  My  love 
to  Bebba,  and  don't  look  so  down  in  the  mouth ! 
You're  not  playing  Hamlet  now !  As  for  me,  I 
shall  take  a  new  lease  of  life  out  yonder,  among 
the  orange  groves,  and  come  back  like  a  giant 
refreshed  —  and  then,  my  lad,  hey  for  the  Globe 
and  'Griffith  Gaunt'!' 

Alas  I  Uhomme  propose  et  Dieu  dispose ! 


408 


CHAPTER    II 

COMING    HOME 

His  last  Letter — Life  at  Cannes — Nostalgia — Home — A  last  Good- 
bye—Black Friday,  1884. 

In  sight  of  the  end  of  what  has  been  a  labour  of 
love,  I  propose  to  devote  a  few  words,  not  to  the 
brilliant  dramatist,  the  great  author,  but  to  the  dear 
friend,  the  large-hearted,  hot-headed,  impetuous, 
loving,  and  lovable  man — who  was  brave  as  a  lion 
and  gentle  as  a  lamb,  the  man  who  was  the  '  truest 
friend  and  noblest  foe'  I  have  ever  met. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  during  all  these 
years,  and  the  many  transactions  that  occurred  be- 
tween us,  we  did  not  have  our  points  of  departure ! 
^^Ve  were  both  very  much  too  human  to  be  infallible. 

Others  may  prefer  to  dwell  upon  his  foibles. 
For  my  part  I  do  not  care  to  note  the  spots  on  the 
sun !  It  is  enough  for  me  that  he  irradiates  the 
earth  with  light  and  life  and  lifts  my  soul  to 
heaven. 

Were  I  to  tell  of  the  thousand  generous  and 
benevolent  actions  done  by  this  man  in  silence  and 
in  secrecy,  I  should  require  another  volume.  A 
few  instances,  however,  will  suffice. 

Of  course  everyone  knows  that  on  the  occasion 
of  the  famous  trial  in  which  the  late  Hepworth 
Dixon  was  concerned,  Reade  sent  him,  unasked,  a 
cheque  for  a  thousand  guineas ;  that  Dixon  did 
not  accept  the  offer  does  not  diminish  Reade's 
generosity. 

Some  years  ago,  when  in  feeble  health,  he  asked 
me  to  go  down  to  see  his  play  of  '  Drink '  at  an 

409 


THE   WHITE  PILGRIM 

East  End  theatre.  I  did,  and  reported  favourably 
upon  the  gentleman  who  played  Coupeau.  The 
next  day  he  received  a  complimentary  letter  and 
a  "  little  cheque  "  from  the  author. 

A  few  months  later  a  poor  actor  who  had  been 
in  Her  employment,  being  in  great  straits,  wrote 
imploring  help  in  the  name  of  the  Dead.  He 
received  by  return  of  post  a  bank-note,  merely  in- 
scribed, 'A  Voice  from  Willesden  churchyard.' 

The  wife  of  a  famous  literary  man,  then  dying, 
and  since  dead,  wrote  to  Reade  asking  the  loan  of 
a  few  pounds.     She  received  for  answer: 

'  Madam, — I  never  lend  money,  except  on  good 
security,  but  please  hand  the  enclosed  to  your 
husband.' 

The  husband  opened  the  letter  and  found  a 
cheque  for  thirty  pounds,  with  a  hasty  scrawl: 
'  Dear  X., — A  dear,  dead  friend  of  yours  and  mine 
has  left  a  little  fund  at  my  disposal.*  If  she  were 
alive  I  know  she  would  send  you  the  enclosed ;  I 
am,  therefore,  only  carrying  out  her  wishes.  I 
send  it  upon  one  condition  —  that  you  get  down 
to  Margate  immediately,  and  save  your  life  for  the 
sake  of  your  wife,  who  is  an  excellent  woman.' 

A  lady  with  whom  we  had  both  been  on  terms 
of  friendly  intimacy  in  the  heyday  of  her  youth 
and  beaut)^  the  widow  of  a  mutual  friend — a  dis- 
tinguished actor  and  manager — 'had  remarried  in 
haste  and  repented  at  leisure.'  This  haughty  and 
imperious  beauty  was  stricken  down  with  a  mortal 
malady.     She  wrote  one  line : 

*  Dear  Charles  Reade,  —  I  am  ill,  dying,  in 
want.' 

He  was  in  her  miserable  garret  as  soon  as  the 
first  cab  could  take  him  there.  Two  hours  later 
he  had  removed  her  to  commodious  apartments, 
placed  her  under  the  charge  of  a  Sister  of  Mercy, 
and  one  of  the  most  eminent  physicians  in  London. 

*  Besides  this  fund,  Mrs  Seymour  left  an  endowment  of  £20 
per  annum  ('The  Seymour  Dole'),  for  the  benefit  of  twenty 
poor  widows  in  the  Parish  of  Willesden. 

410 


LEO'S   LAST   LETTER 

Though  too  late  to  save,  it  was  not  too  late  to 
soothe  her  last  moments  and  to  surround  her  with 
everything  which  his  generous  care  could  provide. 

One  instance  concerns  myself.  At  a  critical 
period  I  had  lost  my  whole  fortune  in  a  disastrous 
enterprise  which  left  me  high  and  dry  without  a 
shilling.  I  had  dined  at  Albert  Gate  the  night 
before.  Some  proud  blood  wliich  I  inherit  had 
fettered  my  tongue,  but  he  had  instinctively  divined 
the  truth,  and  next  morning  he  burst  into  my  room 
and  planked  a  bag  of  sovereigns  on  the  table  (quite 
sufficient  to  enable  me  to  tide  over  my  immediate 
necessities),  exclaiming  abruptly  :  '  I  saw  you  seemed 
rather  gene  last  night ;  there,  that's  something  to 
buy  postage  -  stamps  with,  and  if  you  need  more, 
there's  plenty  left  where  that  came  from.'  And  he 
was  gone  before  I  had  time  to  reply. 

I  could  multiply  these  illustrations  of  the  gene- 
rosity of  that  large  heart  ad  injinihan,  but  methinks 
I  have  said  enough. 

Having  executed  a  commission  I  had  under- 
taken on  his  behalf  I  duly  advised  him  thereof. 
Not  hearing  in  reply,  I  wrote  again,  and  received 
the  following  answer: — 

*  Hotel  Splendide,  Cannes, 
December  4,  1883. 

*  My  Dear  Coleman, — I  certainly  must  have 
overlooked  your  last  letter  somehow,  and  now  write 
to  thank  you  for  your  zeal  and  ability  on  my  behalf. 

1  shall  be  happy  to  receive  communications 
from  you  with  regard  to  any  matter  of  public  or 
private  interest,  so  please  note  my  address. 

My  own  condition  is  a  sad  one.  Either  I 
have  a  cancer  in  the  stomach  or  bowels,  or  else  a 
complete  loss  of  digestion.  So  far  as  animal  food 
is  concerned  1  have  been  obliged  to  resign  it  en- 
tirely, excepting  in  the  form  of  soup — and  soup  is 
to  me  (as  you  know  of  old),  little  better  than  hot 
water.     I  am  making  arrangements  to  have  a  cow 

411 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

milked  twice  a  day  into  my  pitcher,  and  if  two 
quarts  of  milk  and  twelve  raw  eggs  per  diem  will 
keep  an  old  man  alive  I  may  live  another  year. 

This  is  a  delightful  place  if  you  keep  in  the 
sun,  which  is  quite  as  warm  as  the  sun  of  May  in 
England,  but  it  only  warms  the  air  where  it  strikes 
it.  I  find  it  winter  in  the  shady  streets,  and  indeed 
everywhere  after  sunset ;  but  there  is  a  great  differ- 
ence between  the  temperature  of  this  place  and 
Paris,  for  here  are  avenues  of  palm-trees  flourishing, 
not  in  boxes,  but  in  the  bare  soil,  not  very  lofty, 
but  with  grand  and  beautiful  stems ;  there  are  also 
aloes  in  bloom,  and  orange-orchards  weighed  down 
with  the  golden  fruit ;  there  are  also  less  pleasant 
indications  of  a  warm  climate ;  the  flies  are  a  perfect 
pest  during  meals,  and  at  night  I  am  eaten  up 
with  mosquitoes. 

Now,  what  are  you  doing?  Please  tell  me. 
I  have  never  been  well  enough  to  work  on  '  Griffith 
Gaunt,'  but  I  have  got  your  manuscript  by  me, 
and  fully  appreciate  and  approve  your  excellent 
emendations.  .  .  . 

The  charge  for  a  letter  here  is  now  only  two- 
and-a-half  pence,  and  in  my  solitude  and  affliction 
a  little  gossip  from  my  old  friend  will  be  doubly 
welcome.  Write  me,  as  soon  as  possible,  a  good 
long  letter.  Attack  a  sheet  of  foolscap — don't  be 
afraid  of  it — and,  above  all,  believe  me,  now  and 
always  yours,  Charles  Reade.' 

In  compliance  with  his  request  I  wrote  giving 
him  a  full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  all  that 
was  going  on  in  town,  in  Parliament,  at  the  Theatres, 
etc.,  and  endeavoured  to  laugh  him  out  of  his  sad 
presentiments,  quoting  the  examples  of  The  Pope, 
Gladstone,  Montefiore,  etc.  After  this  I  wrote  three 
or  four  times,  but  the  above  is  the  last  letter  I  ever 
received  from  him.  Knowing  how  erratic  he  was 
in  his  correspondence,  his  prolonged  silence,  though 
it  pained  me,  gave  me  no  cause  for  alarm,  especially 
as  I  had  read  his  letter  on  the  Belt  case,  published 

412 


ON   THE   RIVIERA 

in  the  Daily  Telegi'aph  immediately  after  the  then 
Lord  Chief-Justice  had  formulated  his  extraordinary- 
dictum  as  to  the  value  of  Opinion  versus  Fact.  In 
this,  Reade's  last  published  utterance,  I  was  de- 
lighted to  find  all  his  old  intellectual  vigour,  his 
irresistible  logic,  his  remarkable  power  of  grouping 
facts  and  balancing  the  weight  of  evidence  for  and 
against,  all  his  judicial  faculty  of  deciding  fairly  and 
impaitially  upon  the  merits  of  any  case  in  which  he 
was  not  himself  personally  interested !  To  my  think- 
ing, he  had  never  struck  out  straighter  from  the 
shoulder,  never  'v\Titten  anything  better  or  stronger. 
I  concluded,  therefore,  that  he  was  regaining  health 
and  strength,  and  I  looked  forward  to  his  returning, 
as  he  had  anticipated,  '  like  a  giant  refreshed,'  to 
commence  our  campaign  next  season  at  the  Globe 
with  '  Griffith  Gaunt.' 

Beyond  the  information  contained  in  the  preced- 
ing letter,  I  had  no  personal  knowledge  of  his  doings 
on  the  Riviera  until  a  few  months  later,  when  I 
chanced,  by  mere  accident,  to  meet  at  the  club  a 
popular  journalist,  who  happened  to  be  staying  with 
his  wife  at  Cannes  about  the  beginning  of  March 
1884. 

This  gentleman  informed  me  that  one  day,  while 
basking  in  the  sunshine  in  the  garden  of  the  Hotel 
Splendide,  he  sought  to  beguile  the  time  by  reading 
'  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,'  in  one  of  the 
popular  editions,  with  a  sensational  illustration  on 
the  cover. 

Engrossed  in  the  story,  he  had  not  noticed  a 
tall,  elderly  white-haired,  white-bearded  gentleman, 
swathed  in  rugs,  who  sat  near  him  in  a  huge  wicker 
arm-chair. 

Looking  up,  their  eyes  met. 

The  stranger  smiled,  as  he  said  in  a  soft,  gentle 
voice :  '  Would  you  mind  reading  an  old  man  a 
chapter  of  that  remarkable-looking  book,  sir?' 

This  request  was  complied  with,  evidently  to  the 
delight  of  the  listener.     To  the  reader's  amazement 

413 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

he  learnt  that  his  interlocutor  was  no  other  than  the 
author  of  the  story. 

Upon  calling  the  following  day  to  pay  his  respects 
my  friend  found  Reade  lying  prostrate  on  the  floor 
of  the  room.  His  head  was  propped  up  by  pillows, 
and  he  literally  gasped  for  breath.  For  a  fortnight 
or  more  he  suffered  tortures  from  rapid  changes  of 
temperature — to-day  well,  to-morrow  ill ;  but,  well 
or  ill,  always  a  martyr  to  nostalgia. 

He  grumbled  incessantly  at  the  service  of  the 
hotel,  complaining  that  he  could  get  nothing  to  eat, 
and  that  he  could  not  have  his  fire  lighted  at  night — 
at  least,  not  without  a  fight  for  it ;  while  the  delicate 
condition  of  his  lungs  rendered  a  fire  in  his  bedroom 
not  only  necessary  but  absolutely  indispensable. 
He  would  piteously  inquire  of  his  visitor :  "  Have 
you  any  English  tea  ?  This  '  rot  gut '  isn't  fit  to 
drink !  Can  your  excellent  good  wife  make  me  an 
omelette  ?  I  think  I  could  eat  one  after  those  dainty 
little  fingers." 

This  lady  and  another  feminine  visitor  ministered 
to  his  wants  as  well  as  they  could,  frequently  getting 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  mend  his  fire  or 
make  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

During  those  wakeful  nights  he  was  very  feeble 
and  depressed,  and  continually  troubled  with  a 
terrible  hacking  cough. 

When  his  fair  nurses  tried  to  cheer  him  up  he 
was  wont  to  shake  his  head  and  smile  sadly,  while 
he  replied :  "  It's  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  but 
I  feel — /  know  Tm.  hooked  for  kingdom  come!  The 
doctors  have  begun  to  inject  morphia,  and  the 
beggars  never  do  that  until  a  fellah's  at  the  back 
of  God-speed  I " 

In  these  despondent  moods  he  was  repeatedly 
heard  to  mutter  to  himself :  '  I  hope  I  shall  get 
back  to  die.  I  should  not  like  to  shuffle  off  my 
mortal  coil  in  this  beastly  hole  I ' 

He  had  been  alone  (save  for  his  secretary)  through 
the  whole  winter.  At  last,  finding  himself  death- 
stricken,   he   summoned   his    relations   to   take   him 

4U 


COMING   HOME 

home.  They  found  him  almost  in  articulo  vioi^tis. 
When  they  arrived  at  Calais  the  Channel  was  dread- 
fully rough.  In  his  best  days  he  had  been  a  martyr 
to  mal-de-mer,  and  had  a  horror  of  the  sea.  It  was 
this  alone  which  had  prevented  him  from  accepting 
numerous  invitations  to  visit  America,  where  he  was 
more  popular  even  than  in  his  own  country,  and 
where  a  royal  welcome  had  awaited  him  any  time 
for  tive-and-twenty  years. 

For  nearly  a  week  his  departure  was  delayed 
by  the  weather.  At  last  came  a  lull,  of  which  his 
friends  took  advantage.  When  they  commenced 
to  move  him,  the  motion  of  the  carriage  caused 
him  intolerable  pain  ;  but  his  nieces  walked  on  either 
side,  holding  his  hands,  and  so  they  soothed  him, 
until  at  last  he  consented  to  be  carried  on  board. 
Strange  to  say,  he  suffered  very  little  during  the 
voyage ;  but  the  railway  journey  to  London  shook 
him  terribly.  When  he  got  to  Shepherd's  Bush 
he  had  just  strength  to  articulate:  'Thank  God, 
I  have  come  home  to  die.' 

His  words  were  prophetic. 

It  was  the  second  time  within  two  months  that 
the  shadow  of  death  had  fallen  on  that  hospitable 
abode.  Only  a  few  weeks  previous  Henry,  the  son 
of  William  Reade,  the  head  of  the  house,  a  hale, 
hearty  man  of  forty — '  The  Squire,'  as  they  called 
him  down  at  Ipsden,  had  been  stricken  down  with 
a  mortal  malady,  and  died  in  that  very  room. 

It  is  idle  now  to  think  of  what  might  have 
been,  but  it  is  my  firm  conviction  that  if,  years  ago, 
before  functional  derangement  had  set  in,  Charles 
Reade  had  consented  to  be  guided  by  medical 
advice,  and  to  take  physic  (which  he  always  de- 
tested), above  all,  to  submit  to  proper  dietetic 
treatment,  he  would  have  lived  years  longer.  It 
is  quite  certain  that  the  eminent  physicians  who 
attended  him  during  his  last  ilhiess  found  that  he 
had  been  entirely  mistaken  as  to  the  nature  of  his 
disease.  There  was  no  indication  of  cancer  in  the 
stomach ;  but  for  years  he  had  been  suffering  from 

415 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

induration  of  the  liver,  and  emphysema  of  the  lungs, 
combined  with  impaired  digestion. 

From  the  moment  of  his  return  it  was  seen  to 
be  impossible  for  him  to  recover,  but  all  that  loving 
care  and  kindness  could  do  was  done  to  alleviate 
his  sufferings. 

On  Sunday,  7th  April,  I  took  my  last  leave  of 
my  dear  old  friend.  He  was  quite  unconscious, 
and  but  the  shadow  of  his  former  self.  I  enquired 
if  he  knew  me.  He  pressed  my  hand  gently,  but 
made  no  answer,  and  I  realised  the  fact  that  all  hope 
was  past,  and  that  those  who  loved  him  best  could 
only  pray  that  the  end  might  come  soon — the  sooner 
the  better,  and  I  was  not  surprised  when  the  news 
of  his  release  came  on  the  following  P^riday. 

I  was  told  afterwards  that  towards  the  end  he 
wandered  slightly,  sometimes  spoke  in  French  to 
imaginary  servants  who  were  helping  him  aboard 
the  boat  at  Calais ;  that  he  called  for  money  to  give 
them.     And  then  at  last 

*  Life  lulled  itself  to  sleep,  and  sleep  slept  unto  death.' 

On  Tuesday,  15th  April  1884,  all  that  was  mortal 
of  Charles  Reade  was  buried  in  Willesden  Church- 
yard. The  funeral  rites  were  as  unostentatious  as  his 
life  had  been.  There  were  only  ten  chief  mourners 
—  kinsmen  and  old  friends  —  among  whom  I  was 
privileged  to  take  a  place.  Wilkie  Collins  was  per- 
emptorily ordered  by  his  physician  to  refrain  from 
attending ;  but  he  wrote  a  most  touching  letter, 
bewailing  the  loss  of  a  comrade  of  forty  years' 
standing.  Sir  Edwin  i^.rnold,  who  a  few  days  pre- 
viously had  testified  so  eloquently  in  the  columns 
of  the  Daily  Telegraph  to  the  sterling  worth,  the 
nobility  of  character,  and  the  genius  of  his  former 
pupil,  was  also  debarred  from  joining  us. 

The  art  of  reading  the  '  Order  for  the  Burial 
of  the  Dead '  with  propriety  is  an  accomplishment 
which  appears  to  be  rarely  or  ever  included  among 
the  acquirements  of  the  average  clergyman ;  but 
on  this  occasion   the   inspired   words   were   read  so 

416 


AT   REST 

nobly  that  they  gained  an  added  beauty  from  their 
touching  and  tender  utterance  by  the  Vicar  of 
Willesden,  who  was,  I  beheve,  an  old  friend  of 
the  departed. 

The  morning  had  been  cold  and  grey,  but  the 
moment  we  left  the  church  the  sun  shone  forth 
bright  and  glorious  on  the  masses  of  flowers  which 
were  heaped  upon  the  coffin,  on  the  lid  of  which 
was  the  following  inscription : — 

"CHARLES   READE, 

Dramatist,  Novelist,  and  Journalist. 
Born  June  8,  1814. 
Died  April  11,  1884." 

'  Dramatist '  first — always  first !  At  his  own  re- 
quest the  words  were  thus  placed.  The  ruling  passion 
was  strong  in  death,  and  to  the  very  last  he  remained 
faithful  to  his  first  and  early  love — the  Drama. 

When  he  was  laid  in  the  grave,  as  far  as  my 
eyes  could  see  through  the  mist  which  rose  before 
them,  there  were  present  two  hundred  people,  more 
or  less,  among  whom  I  could  distinguish  of  men 
of  letters  only  two — Robert  Buchanan  and  George 
Augustus  Sala ;  and  of  actors  only  two — Stanislaus 
r!an'pi^ii|;;''-aild*  Davenport  Coleman.  They  followed 
him  that  day  to  his  grave.  I  have  since  followed 
them  to  theirs. 

They  do  'manage  some  things  better  in  France.' 

While  these  lines  are  passing  through  the  press, 
comes  the  news  from  Paris  of  the  funeral  obse- 
quies of  one  of  the  authors  of  '  La  Bataille  des 
Dames,'  the  play  which  opened  the  doors  of  the 
Theatre  to  Charles  Reade  more  than  half-a-century 
ago.  Yesterday — 17th  March  1903 — M.  Ernest 
Legouve  was  accorded  a  State  Funeral.  First 
came  magnificent  wreaths  from  the  Comedie  Fran- 
9aise,  the  Dramatic  Authors'  Society,  the  Students' 
Association,  and  from  the  Normal  School  of  Sevres 
(his  native  place)  ;  next  the  chief  mourners,  the 
family  of  tbe  deceased,  and  the  Academicians  — 
2d  417 


THE   WHITE   PILGRIM 

Victorien  Sardou,  Gaston  Boissier,  Vicomte  de 
Vojlie,  and  the  Comte  de  Haussonville,  represent- 
ing 'The  Immortals.'  Then  came  a  deputation 
from  the  Theatre  Fran9aise  preceding  the  Ministers 
of  State — viz.,  M.  Chaumie  (Pubhc  Instruction) ; 
••  M.   Rujon  (Fine  Arts),  and   the   Representative  of 

^  the   Supreme   Head   of    tlie   RepubHc,    M.    Loubet 

himself,  escorted  by  General  Florentin  (Military 
Governor  of  Paris),  and  his  suite,  comprising  large 
detachments  of  cavalry,  artillery,  and  infantry,  with 
their  respective  bands.  The  funeral  service  was 
celebrated  with  all  musical  honours  at  Notre  Dame 
des  Victories. 

Assuredly,  had  Charles  Reade  been  a  French- 
man, all  Paris  would  have  been  in  mourning,  and 
the  people  in  their  thousands  would  have  followed 
to  his  last  resting-place  the  man  who,  from  the  first 
moment  that  he  took  pen  in  hand,  used  it  on  be- 
half of  the  weak,  the  helpless,  the  suffering,  and 
the  oppressed. 

After  all,  what  signifies  the  absence  of  a  few  score 
authors  or  actors  or  the  presence  of  a  few  thousand 
spectators  ?  Their  absence  or  their  presence  troubles 
him  not  now.  He  sleeps  none  the  less  soundly 
beside  the  faithful  heart  of  his  '  wise  counsellor, 
loyal  ally,  and  bosom  friend.' 


418 


HIS   LAST  WORDS 

On  his  tomb  these  words  are  inscribed  : 


Here  Lie 

By  the  Side  of  his  Beloved  Friend 
The    Mortal    Remains   of 

CHARLES   READE, 

Dramatist,  Novelist,  and  Journalist. 

His  last  words  to  mankind  are  on  this  stone. 

I  hope  for  a  resurrection,  not  from  any  power  in 
nature,  but  from  the  will  of  the  Lord  God  Omnipotent, 
who  made  nature  and  me.  He  created  man  out  of 
nothing,  which  nature  could  not.  He  can  restore  men 
from  the  dust,  which  nature  cannot.  And  I  hope  for 
holiness  and  happiness  in  a  future  life,  not  for  anything 
I  have  said  or  done  in  this  body,  but  from  the  merits 
and  mediation  of  Jesus  Christ.  He  has  promised  His 
intercession  to  all  who  seek  it,  and  He  will  not  break 
His  word.  That  intercession,  once  granted,  cannot  be 
rejected  ;  for  He  is  God,  and  His  merits  infinite ;  a 
man's  sins  are  but  human  and  finite.  '  Him  that 
Cometh  to  Me,  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out.'  '  If  any 
man  sin,  we  have  an  advocate  with  the  Father,  Jesus 
Christ  the  Righteous,  and  He  is  the  propitiation  for 
our  sins." 


'  Though  he  be  dead,  his  name  will  live  for 
ever.' 

Yes !  So  long  as  Britain  remains  a  Nation,  so 
long  as  tlie  Stars  and  Stripes  float  over  tlie  Great 
country  whicli  he  loved  next  to  his  Island  home,  so 
long  as  the  language  of  Shakespeare  and  of  ^lilton 
is  spoken  in  any  quarter  of  the  habitable  globe,  so 
long  will  the  name  of  Cliarles  Keade  be 

*  Familiar  in  men's  mouths  as  household  words  ! ' 
FINIS 
2d2  419 


POST  SCRIPTUM 

The  writer  feels  bound  to  acknowledge  his  in- 
debtedness to  JNIessrs  John  Hollingshead,  Arthur 
Reade,  and  the  Rev.  Compton  Reade ;  also  to 
Messrs  Chatto  &  Windus,  Chapman,  Hall  h  Com- 
pany, and  Sir  Squire  and  Lady  Bancroft,  for  much 
valuable  information  in  connection  with  this  work : 
but  more  especially  thanks  are  due  to  INlr  Charles 
L.  Reade,  who  has  kindly  prepared  the  following 
exhaustive  compendium  of  the  author's  dramatic 
and  narrative  work. 

The  photographers,  one  and  all,  who  have 
graciously  permitted  the  reproduction  of  unique 
and  scarce  photographs  are  also  entitled  to  the 
writer's  grateful  acknowledgments. 

EARLY   UNACTED   PLAYS 

(Written  before  1851) 

1.  The  Way  Things  Turn.  5.  Lucrezia     Borgia    (Victor 

2.  The  Dangerous  Path.  Hugo). 

3.  The  Lost  Sisters.  6.  A  Lady's  Oath. 

4.  Marguerite.  7.  Peregrine  Pickle. 

8.  Christie  Johnstone. 

LATER   UNACTED   PLAYS 

9.  Poverty  and  Pride  (Les  Pauvres  de  Paris). 
10.  Le     Faubourg    St    Germain.       Original    two-act    play. 
Written  in  French.     Printed  in  Paris,  1859. 

ACTED   PLAYS 

1.  The    Ladies'    Battle.      Scribe   and   Legouve.      Olympic, 

7th  May  1851. 

2.  Angelo  (Hugo).     Tragedy.     Olympic,  1 1th  August  1851. 

3.  Masks  and  Faces.     With  Taylor.     Haymarket,  1852. 

4.  The   Lost    Husband   (La   Dame  de  la   Halle).     Strand, 

May  1852. 

420 


POST   SCRIPTUM 

5.  The   \'^illage   Tale.     An   adaptation   of  Georges   Sand's 

Claudie  (subsequently  re-named  Rachel  the  Reaper). 
Strand,  May  J  852. 

6.  Art  is  an  adaptation  of  Tiridate,  now  known  as  Nance 

Oldfield.     Strand,  May  1852. 

7.  Gold.     Romantic    drama    in    five    acts.       Drury    Lane, 

10th  January  1856. 

8.  Two  Loves  and  a  Life.      Romantic   drama.      Four   acts. 

With  Tom  Taylor.     Adelphi,  18th  April  1864. 

9.  King's  Rival.     Comedy.     Five  acts.     With  Tom  Taylor. 

St  James's,  October  1864. 

10.  First    Printer.     Romantic    drama.        Five    acts.       W^ith 

Tom  Taylor.     Princess's,  1864. 

11.  Honour    before    Titles    (Nobs    and    Snobs).      Comedy. 

St  James's,  1865. 

12.  It   is    Never   too   Late   to    Mend.     Drama.     Four   acts. 

Leeds,  10th  February   1866. 

13.  Dora.     Domestic   drama.      Three   acts.     Adelphi,    15th 

June  1867. 

1 4.  Double  Marriage.    Romantic  drama.     Five  acts.    Queen's, 

25th  October  1867. 

15.  Foul  Play.     Drama.     Five  acts.     Leeds,  May  1868. 

1 6.  Griffith  Gaunt.     Romantic  drama.    Five  acts.    Newcastle- 

on-Tyne,  I869. 

17.  Shillyshally.     Comedy.     Three  acts.     Gaiety,  1st  April 

1870. 

18.  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.     Drama.     Leeds,  March  1 870. 

Produced  at  the  Adelphi  the  following  year,  under 
the  title  of  Free  Labour. 
1.9.  The  Robust  Invalid.     Comedy  in  five  acts,  from  Moliere's 
Malaide    Imaginaire.      Produced  at  the    Adelphi    in 
conjunction  with  the  foregoing. 

20.  The  Wandering  Heir.     Liverpool,  September  187.3. 

21.  Jealousy.    Comedy,  from  Sardou's  Andree.    Olympic,  1875. 

22.  Joan.     Drama  in  five  acts.     Liverpool,  1876.     From  Mrs 

Burnett's  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's. 

23.  Drink.      Realistic  drama,  six  acts,  from  Zola.      Princess's 

Whit  Monday  187f). 

24.  Single    Heart    and     Double    Face.       Domestic    drama 

Never  acted,  but  produced  for   Copyright  purposes. 
1863. 

25.  Love  or   Money.     Drama  with   Pettitt.     Adelphi,   18th 

November  1882. 

WORKS   OF   FICTION 

1.  Peg  Woffington.     1852. 

2.  Christie  Johnstone.      1853. 

3.  Magazine    Stories : — Clouds   and    Sunshine,    Jack   of  all 

Trades,  The  Bloomer,  etc.     1854-1856. 

4.  It's  Never  too  Late  to  Mend.     1856. 

421 


POST   SCRIPTUM 

5.  White  Lies;  or,  The  Double  Marriage.     1857. 

6.  Love  me  little  love  me  long.      1859. 

7.  A  Good  Fight  (Once  a  Week).     1859. 

The  editor  tried  to  edit  him.     Result,  C.  R.  brought 
the    story  to  an  abruptly  absurd  happy  conclusion, 
';  and  set  to  work  to  transform  it  to 

'^8.  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.     Published  in  186l. 

^9-  Hard  Cash  (All  the  Year  Round).     1863. 

10.  Griffith  Gaunt  (The  Argosy).     1866. 

11.  Foul  Play.     With  Boucicault.     (Cornhill.>)     1868. 

12.  Put  Yourself  in  his  Place  (Cornhill).      1870. 

13.  Wandering  Heir  (Christmas  Number  Graphic).     1872. 

14.  Terrible  Temptation  (Cassells).     1871. 

15.  A  Simpleton.     1872. 

16.  A  Woman  Hater  (Blackwood's  anonymously).     1877. 

17.  Singleheart  and  Doubleface  (Harper's).     1882. 

18.  A  Perilous  Secret  (Tillotson's  Serials).     1883.    (Published 

in  3  vol.  form  by  Bentley.)     1884. 

19.  The  Eighth  Commandment.     I860. 

20.  Various  Short  Stories  published  in  Belgravia,  Harper's, 

and  other  periodicals. 

21.  Articles   in    Pall    Mall    Gazette    on    Cremona    Fiddles, 

Rights   and    Wrongs   of   Authors,    etc.,    etc.      [See 
Readiana  published  by  Chatto.) 


4^ 


^,..-*     ^^^/-^^-^-^ 


^.ji^  .^-^K--*^ 


-^  


INDEX 


INDEX 


"  Acis  and  Galatea,  224 

Addison,  Miss,  195,  2-14. 

"After  Dark,"  208 

Albery,  James,  271 

Andr4  319 

Anson,  G.  W.,  319 

"Arrah  na  Pogue,"  191,  208 

Arnold,  Edwin,  249,  267 

Ashley,  236 

Austin,  Lieutenant,  197 


B 


"Babil  and  Bijou,"  318 

Bancroft,  105,  204 

Barnett,  39 

Barrett,  Wilson,  225 

Barry,  Helen,  317 

Bateman,  Kate,  19o,  199 

Bateman,  Richmond,  195 

Beatrice,  Mdlle.,  204 

Belmore,  George,  205 

Benson,  Frank,  346 

Besant,  265 

Billington,  326 

"  Bohemians     of    Paris,     The," 

208 
Booth,  Edwin,  225 
Boucicault,  Dion,    10,    13,    110, 

163,  203,  206,  207,  208,  270, 

277,  308,  318 
Braddon,  Miss,  265 
Braham,  Augustus,  227,  379 
Brough,  Lionel,  244 
Brougham,  Henry,  191 
Buchanan,  Robert,  401,  417 


Buckstone,  Fred,  195 
Burnand,  Francis,  271 
Byron,  Henry,  271 


Calhaem,  Stanislaus,  192,  341, 

342,  417 
Carlyle,  264 
Carson,  Caroline,  192 
Cathcart,  J.  F.,  309 
Cavendish,  Ada,  317,  319 
Chatterton,  186,  331 
"Christie  Johnstone,"  129^  141, 

253 
Clayton,  John,  282,  319 
"Cloister  and  Hearth,  The,"  231, 

263 
Coleman,  Edward,  173,  196,  340 
Coleman,     George      Davenport, 

236,  315,  316,  318,  319,  320, 

417 
Collins,  Wilkie,  225,  265 
Cooke,  T.  P.,  290 
Correlli,  Marie,  346 
"  Courier  of  Lyons,  The,"  153 
"  Course  of  True  Love  never  did 

run  Smooth,  The,"  231 
Coyne,  Stirling,  207 
Creswick,  207 
Curling,  228,  379 


D 


Daly,  Augustus,  208 
Dickens,  Charles,  234,  264,  275 
Dickson,  Dr,  15 
Dillon,  Charles,  1 86 


425 


INDEX 


Dillon,  Clara,  178,  195,  339  Henri,  50,  76 

Disraeli,  264  Herbert,  Miss,  203 

Dixon,  Hepworth,  409  Heritage,  292 

"  Dora,"  224,  225,  241,  341,  403  Hodgson  Burnett,  Mrs,  335 

"Double   Marriage,  The,"    241,  Hollingshead,   John,   275,    331, 


341 
«  Drink,"  225,  370 
Dumas,  p^re,  266 
Dumas,  3^7*,  271 


351,  385 
Horsman,  305 
Hughes,  Miss,  236 
Hugo,  Victor,  266 


E 

"  Eighth  Commandment,  The," 

230 
Ellerton,  Dr,  33 
Elliot,  George,  265 
Elliston,  R.  W.,  290 
Eyre,  Sophie,  403 
Everill,  192 


It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend," 
155-165,  169-219,  319,  344 


James,  Edwin,  273 

James,  Sir  Henry,  226 

"Jealousy,"  319 

Joan,  355 

Johnstone,  Christie,  3,  49,  60 

Jones,  Avonia,  310 


Falconer,  186 

Farrar,  Dean,  346 

Farren,  William,  269,  277,  308 

Faure,  192 

Fechter,  194,  203,  236,  270,  275 

"First  Printer,  The,"  153  K 

Fisher,  Walter,  319 

"  Foul  Play,"  302,  306,  308,  31 0,      Kean,  Charles,  122,  269,  371 


319 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  19O 
"  Freedom,"  403 
"Free  Labour,"  321 


Kembles,  The,  236,  361-364 
"King's  Rival,  A,"  151 
Knowles,  John,  184,  187,  188 
Knowles,  Sheridan,  397 


«  L 

Glover,  Julia,  321,  346 

Glyn,  Miss,  151  Labouchere,  242 

"Gold,"  6,   121,  122,  143,  155,      Lacy  Sidney,  195 


163 

Gooch,  Walter,  224,  225 
"  Good  Fight,  A,"  232,  263 
"Griffith  Gaunt,"  301,  310 

H 

Hann,  Walter,  240 

"  Hard  Cash,"  207,  234 

Hardy,  266 

Harris,  Augustus,  195,  400 


"  Ladies'  Battle,  The,"  90 

"Lady  Clancarty,"  319 

"  La  Faubourg  de  S.  Germain," 

231 
"La  Portefeuille  Rouge,"  308 
"  L'Assommoir,"  388 
Lawson,  Lionel,  242 
Leclerq,  Rose,  337 
Leeds  Mercuty,  175 
Legouve,  417 
Leigh,  Grace,  178,  339 


426 


INDEX 


Leng,  311 

Lewes,  G.  H,,  250 

Lilian,  112-119 

"Little  Lord  Fauntleroy/'  l65 

Loraine,  Henry,  1,Q2,  I96 

"  Lost  Husband,  A,"  148 

"  Love  and  Money,"  193 

"  Love     me     Little,     Love     me 

Long,"  231 
Lowe,  Robert,  41 
Lytton,    Edward     Bulwer,    232, 

233,  248 


M 


MacBride,  Dr,  33 
Mackonoehie,  Captain,  196 
Macquet,  230,  231,  232,  241 
Macready,  254,  356,  367,  375 
Mars,  Mdlle.,  55 
"  Mask,  The,"  308 
Maskelyne  and  Cooke,  272 
«  Masks  and  Faces,"   92,  94,  96, 

104,  105 
Matthews,  Charles,  186,  270 
Matthews,  Sir  Henry,  228 
Meade,  Tom,  151 
Menken,  Adah,  212,  251 
Merivale,  Hermann,  271 
Merrett,  Paul,  400 
Mills,  34 

Montgomery,  Walter,  217,  318 
Moore,  Louisa,  209 
Morris,  53 
Murray,  Leigh,  I6,  90 


N 


Neville,  Henry,  236,  318,  319 
Newman,  Cardinal,  41 
Nillson,  Christine,  192 
"Nobs  and  Snobs,"  153 


O 

Oliver,  Patty,  191 
Ouida,  265 
Oxenford,  John,  212 


Pateman,  Bella,  181,  319 
Paulton,  Harry,  181 
Payne,  265 

"Peg  Woffington,"  118 
"  Peril,"  204 
"  Pericles,"  346 
Pettitt,  Henry,  400,  402 
Phelps,  269,  276,  345 
"  Picture,  The,"  248 
Pitt,  Charles,  195 
Planche,  271 
"  Poverty  and  Pride,  207 
"  Poor  of  London,  The,"  207 
Pritchard,  John,  192 
"Put   Yourself  in    His    Place,' 
312,  314,  321 


R 


"Rag  Picker  of  Paris,  The,"  225 
Reade,  Arthur,  210 
Reade,  Compton,  31,  59 
Reade,  John,  24,  52,  59,  79 
Reade,  Mrs  John,  24,  33,  58,  59, 

80,  89,  163 
Reade,  Winwood,  210 
Rice,  265 

Rignold,  George,  311 
Robertson,  Tom,  5,  272 
"  Robust  Invalid,  The,"  321 
Roebuck,  111 
Rogers,  James,  70,  82 
Rossi,  332 
Rousby,  Mrs,  317 
Royce,  305 


"Sailor  and  His  Lass,  A,"  407 

Sala,  George  Augustus,  317 

Salvini,  331 

Sand,  Georges,  266 

"  Sardanapalus,"  314 

Sardou,  271 

Scott,  Clement,  346 

Scott,  Walter,  267 

Scourger,  Dr,  SO 


427 


INDEX 


Scribe   271 

«  Scuttled  Ship,  The/'  319 
Sedgwick,  Amy,  193,  205 
Seymour,    228,    349,    360,    367, 

368,  371,  379 
Seymour,  Mrs,  8,  128,  148,  151, 

153,  201,  204,  290,  298,  319, 

321,  349-384,  392 
"Sham  Sample  Swindle,  The," 

309 
Shepherd,  207 
"  Shilly-Shally/'  325 
Shirley,  Beatrix,  193 
Simms,  Miss,  305,  319 
«  Simpleton,  A,"  324 
Simpson,  Palgrave,  153,  271 
Sinclair,  Henry,  192,  311 
"  Single     Heart     and     Double 

Face,"  248 
Smith,  E.T.,  186 
Smith,  Goldwin,  67,  323 
Sothern,  l69,  251,  270 
Stirling,  186 

Stirling,  Mrs,  82,  87,  88,  90,  64, 
Stuart,  Tom,  151 
Sugden,  319 

"Sweeny  Todd,"  290,  300 
Swinborne,  267 


Taylor,  Tom,   88,  92,  96,  149, 

153,  214,  319,  326 
Taylor,  Mrs  Tom,  241 
Tennyson,  267 
"Terrible  Temptation,  A,"  323, 

324 
Terry,  Ellen,  244,  329,  330 
Terry,  Florence,  321 
Terry,  Kate,  236,  251 


Thackeray,  232,  264, 

"  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's,"  335 

Thompson,  192 

Tomlins,  211,  212 

Toole,  151 

Towers,  173,  338,  339 

Trollope,  Anthony,  264,  325 

Tupper,  Martin,  250 

"Two  Orphans,  The,"  319 

"  Two  Loves  and  a  Life,"  149 


U 


"  Under  the  Gas  Light,"  208 


Vandenhoff,  191,  301 
Vezin,  Hermann,  205,  388 
"Village  Tale,  A,"  148 
Vining,  George,  201,  202,  203- 

211,  224,  225,  321 
Vining,  James,  224 


W 

"  Wandering  Heir,  The,"    326, 

327,  329,  330 
Warner,  Charles,  342,  401,  403 
Webster,     Benjamin,     94,    149, 

239,  251 
"  White  Lies,"  230,  241 
Wigan,  Alfred,  149,  202,  243 
Wigan,  Horace,  202,  203 
Wilde,  Oscar,  266 
"  Woman  in  White,  The,"  225 
Wood,  Mrs  John,  317,  319,  327 
Wyndham,  Bob,  4 
Wyndham,  Charles,  244 


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